A Dream Within a Dream
by b7-kerravon
Summary: Spoilers for SPN seasons 8, 9, and 10! After Dean's problem has been dealt with, they try to help Castiel. Sam finds a spell that might restore his Grace, but they're missing a vital ingredient that they can't seem to obtain. Enter Mr. Fell, a rare books dealer from Soho with a delivery for the Men of Letters, and clues that may solve both their problems and his.
1. Fading Grace

**Chapter 1 - Fading Grace**

"Hey, I found something," Sam said eagerly, rising from the table in the Men of Letters library with a huge, ancient book clutched in his hands. He strode over and placed the tome carefully on the ancient wooden stand that had been built for that purpose.

Ever since Dean's problem had been dealt with and the Winchesters had discovered just how severe Castiel's fading Grace problem actually was, the three had devoted every available waking moment to the search for a cure that didn't involve releasing the Metatron. While the original spell itself was 'irreversible', and finding the remnant of Castiel's original Grace without Metatron's help was unlikely, there was a chance that parts of the spell could be circumvented. After all, there were once again angels in Heaven, weren't there? Given that the Men of Letters had one of the most extensive collections of supernatural research material in the world, the Bunker seemed the best place to begin.

Dean and Castiel abandoned their own research to follow Sam expectantly. Castiel had not looked well upon his initial return from heaven according to the younger Winchester, and despite Crowley's subsequent forcible intervention, the angel's condition was again deteriorating. Now he was wan, with dark circles beneath his eyes and a pervasive air of exhaustion almost exuding from his pores. He shuffled more often than he walked, and tended to collapse into the nearest chair whenever possible. The coughing fits made Sam's chest ache to listen to them, and seemed to last forever.

Dean on the other hand radiated constant jittery concern for the angel, frequently glancing sideways with creased brow at the ill man when he thought no one was looking. He tended to snap at people more often than usual, and his movements were sharp and abrupt. The older Winchester hardly ever smiled lately, and his mouth seemed frozen in a thin, worried line. As both he and Castiel moved to either side of his younger brother, he surreptitiously placed a supporting hand on the angel's elbow.

"This sounds like the actual spell Metatron used," Sam continued, carefully opening the volume so that they could all examine the passage he indicated. "I'm actually surprised we found it so quickly."

"Heart of a nephilim, bow of a cupid… yes, this sounds correct." Castiel studied the text carefully, brows drawn tight in concentration. He suppressed a cough behind one fist as he pointed at the text with his other almost imperceptibly shaking hand.

"Does it mention anything that might help fix you, Cas?" demanded Dean, shouldering forward.

Sam scanned the passage quickly, finger alighting on a paragraph on the next page. "There. This refers to 'restoration', and references chapter forty-seven."

He flipped quickly to the indicated page, skimming until he found the portion that seemed to pertain to the earlier passage. "Here, Cas, check this out." The tall hunter shifted to one side for the angel to better study the text.

"Hmmm. Yes, that might work."

Dean ran his own finger down the page. "Hey, we have most of these ingredients already," he observed.

"Yeah…" agreed Sam dubiously, brows furrowed as he mentally reviewed the Men of Letters' inventory. "All but 'five drops of First Demon blood'." He looked at Castiel and asked, "What, or who, is a 'First Demon'?"

The angel grimaced, rubbing his tired eyes as he thought. He never liked admitting ignorance on questions of the supernatural, but had to admit, "I am unfamiliar with the phrase." He paused for a moment, then cautiously added, "Perhaps it refers to the first demon one encounters after beginning the spell."

"Or maybe it refers to Lucifer, the first demon ever created," suggested Sam.

"No. Lucifer is not considered a demon; he is the Adversary," responded Castiel.

"Yeah, let's hope you're right, Cas, 'cause we're not getting any blood from old Luci any time soon," contributed Dean wryly, then snapped his fingers as a thought occurred to him. "Hey, maybe it means whoever's in charge of Hell at the moment - right now, that'd be Crowley. We could summon _him, _no problem_."_

"I don't know, Dean. See how it's capitalized here? That's an actual title or name of someone specific." Sam met Castiel's eyes, "Not a heavenly reference?"

"Possibly. However, I have never encountered it before, so it seems unlikely," Castiel replied pensively.

"So it's a demonic title, then," mused Sam, revising his theory.

Dean pursed his lips and spread his hands, eyebrows arched. "Again, why don't we just yank Crowley's demonic ass up here and ask? If we put a devil's trap on the ceiling, he won't be able to leave until he gives us an answer."

Castiel and Sam shared a look, then the younger Winchester shrugged. "Why don't we simply draw a summoning circle with the Enochian for 'First Demon' instead?"

Dean jutted his lower lip in a grimace and winced, admitting aloud that Sam's idea was easier. "Yeah. I guess we could try that."

"Yes, my Lord. It will be as you command." The deformed, obsequious creature bowed so low that its sweat-drenched forehead nearly touched the floor. It continued to genuflect as it carefully backed towards the exit, not daring to turn around.

Crowley stared down his nose haughtily as it finally managed to reach the door, his contempt nearly palpable. "See that it is," he snarled.

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," the creature squeaked, then passed into the hallway. "You shall not be further disturbed."

The door closed with a tiny, apologetic _snikt_. The King of Hell stood ramrod straight for almost a full minute before he gave a heartfelt sigh of relief, finally allowing his stiff shoulders to sag with exhaustion. He _hated_ Hell. He hated the demons, he hated the screaming, he hated the persona he had to project 24/7 just to keep his throat from being ripped out unawares and, most of all, he hated being in _charge_ of the whole thing. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Singer that having the corner office hadn't been what he had expected. The only thing worse than being in charge was someone _else_ being in charge. Abaddon had proven that in spades; the woman couldn't run her hosiery, much less the Infernal Realm.

Not that he was doing much better; one of his more loyal followers had already self-immolated in objection to his rule. He hadn't even seen it coming. Was he really that bad? One execution out of pique, and suddenly he had a revolt on his hands. It was just so exhausting! Scrubbing his eyes with his fists, he turned towards his truly massive desk (once belonging to Pope Julius III) and grimaced at the absolute mountain of paperwork piled on top of it. Sometimes he wondered if killing the Knight had been worth the resultant administrative nightmare; it was going to take months to straighten out the chaos she created, on top of dealing with the daily minutiae of efficiently running an organization this large. And now he had to take into account demons' _feelings_. Petitions, supplicants, considerations, loyalty rewards… Bah! It was ridiculous.

Too bad the Dukes of Hell were still mentally stuck in the 14th century or he'd at least foist some of the paperwork off on them. He felt an unaccountable spike of anger as he thought of Hastur and Ligur lounging about torturing individual souls at their leisure while he slaved away with the administrative trivia of supervising the entirety of Down Below. He groaned, then threw himself into the luxurious leather high-backed chair that was practically his prison these days. No, he couldn't assign any meaningful work to those… _antiques_, given any other option whatsoever. He had already delegated everything that wasn't 'eyes only' to sycophantic minions who actually knew what they were doing, rank be damned; even if Hastur and company had been half-way competent, he'd never trust them with any of the business currently piled haphazardly before him. There was too much opportunity for subverting circumstances to their own advantage, and they wouldn't be demons if they didn't jump at the chance. No, the Dukes couldn't be trusted, so it was up to him. Crowley reached for the top of the nearest 'urgent' stack with a grimace and got to work.

After several hours he had managed to complete all the 'absolutely vital that it get done now' paperwork and had moved onto the merely 'very important - time sensitive' documents. He rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off his incipient headache, then leaned on his elbow and drummed his fingers as he considered the Torture Division's latest request for equipment. It wasn't particularly expensive, but he was inclined to refuse on general principle. What was wrong with his infinite queue? It was more modern and amazingly cost-effective. His eyes slid closed in exhaustion as he weighed the relative merits of the requisition; he never even realized when he slid into sleep.

_"Well, Crawly, nice of you to join us," the head of Heaven's intelligence organization sneered, raising one perfect eyebrow as she glanced over her shoulder at him. She was standing ramrod straight about three feet away and only turned her head, nothing about the movement marring the perfect lines of her dark suit and heels. His head throbbed abominably - one of her goons had clubbed him unconscious before he'd even been fully through the bookshop door. It took considerable effort to focus on Heaven's Chief Intelligence Officer, but he marshaled his flagging concentration. She was busily arranging something on a nearby tray, but stood in a way that prevented him from seeing what it was. 'That couldn't bode well', he mused wryly. 'What was he doing here, anyway?'_

_"It's 'Crowley'," he corrected automatically as he blearily examined the rest of his surroundings, squinting against the glare as he looked for clues. Bare white room, minimalist white furnishings, white walls, white floors, white ceilings. White, white, white. Seemed to be a theme. The only disrupting color came from the silver instrument tray the angel was wheeling next to the exam table he was securely strapped to, and Naomi's own somber yet expensively tailored clothing. He twisted his wrists experimentally to check the bonds, and found them more than adequate to hold him in place. His attention jerked back to the angel as she spoke again._

_"Don't bother trying to get free, Crawly. I have some questions about what happened in Lower Tadfield earlier this year, and, given a choice, I would rather extract the answers from a demon than an angel." She moved menacingly towards him brandishing a whirring drill-like object that came frighteningly close to his left eye. "Hold still, now. This will only hurt a bit, and when I'm done, you won't remember a thing."_

_He tried unsuccessfully to flinch back from the power tool, the adrenaline spike clearing his head. "Can't we talk about this? I'd be happy to fill you in without any," he jerked his chin towards the drill, "additional incentive." He flashed her the most charming smile he could dredge up given the circumstances and the nauseating pounding in his head. "Why don't you just ask?"_

_"Using this," she held up her tool, "I know that your answers are true and accurate." She smiled almost demonically. "Plus, it's much more satisfying; Aziraphale needs to learn a lesson." Naomi leaned forward, and all he knew was pain as his brain felt like exploding._

Crowley jolted from the nightmare with a snarl, leaping to his feet as he tried to get his bearings. His heart was pounding a staccato beat as he panted for breath that he didn't actually need. _'Just a dream',_ he growled to himself, recognizing his own office. _'Damn those Winchesters and their Demon Tablet Trials!'_ Before Sam had forcibly injected him with human blood, he'd never needed sleep. He'd liked it, from time to time, but he'd never _needed_ it. Now, he actually found himself napping without even meaning to. He wouldn't mind so much, except for the nightmares. He never knew whether his dreams were memories, subconscious psychological issues announcing their presence, or the sardines he'd had for dinner. Not that it mattered much; good or bad, he could never seem to remember anything more than vague impressions and the occasional snapshot vision of someone or something he recognized. He was certain that this most recent nightmare had involved that blasted heavenly bureaucrat, Naomi, torturing him, but everything else was just vague impressions. A white room somewhere, maybe… He shook his head in irritation; it wasn't important. He couldn't _remember_ having any unpleasant interactions with that skank of an angel, but he had to wonder if it had actually happened, and she'd just erased his memory. One more thing he'd have to investigate when he had time and, if true, _thank_ Naomi properly the next time he laid eyes on her. Maybe he should bring along a couple of his larger hellhounds for good measure…

He groaned as he placed his hands on his lower back, stretching muscles stiff from sitting too long hunched over his desk, then headed for the nearby sideboard. A shot of Craig would be just the thing to take the edge off his nerves, allowing him to concentrate again on the business at hand. Throwing a couple of ice cubes in a tumbler (okay, so being the head honcho did have some perks), he uncorked a crystal decanter with barely-shaking hands and tilted it to pour. That's when he felt the insistent tug, and was suddenly elsewhere.

"Seriously?" Crowley, glass of ice in one hand and tilted decanter in the other, glowered at the trio standing outside the summoning circle he found himself now standing in. The dapperly-dressed demon's eyes flicked in irritation to the Devil's trap painted on the ceiling above him, then resumed glaring at the hunters. His mouth twisted in disgust as he continued, "Aren't we beyond these little games?" His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Also, you do realize that, as _King of Hell_, I have a few responsibilities beyond being constantly at your beck-and-call like some yappy little lapdog?!" The demon's voice rose continuously through his rant until he was red-faced and shouting by its conclusion. It wasn't often that he allowed the 'dynamic duo' and their pet angel to get under his skin, but it had been a long, frustrating day and that nightmare had shaken him more than he cared to admit. He had been looking forward to a simple glass of whisky before resuming his assault on the mountain of minutiae obscuring his desk. Depending on what the 'wonder twins' were up to this time, he might as well kiss any thoughts of seeing his blotter this decade goodbye. Of course, by the gob smacked expressions on the three faces surrounding him, it might take even longer than that.

"OK, you may not be our lapdog, but you _are_ our bitch," jeered Dean, recovering quickly from whatever had derailed his train of thought. "Besides, we can see how 'busy' you are," he continued, jerking his thumb towards the bottle and arching a skeptical eyebrow.

Crowley followed his gaze, staring at the liquor blankly for a moment before shrugging and filling his tumbler, carefully keeping his hands steady and his attitude nonchalant. At least these twats would be a distraction from the remnants of his nightmare. Without looking up, he swirled the golden liquid idly for a moment and then muttered sourly, "Yeah, well, it's been a long day." He tossed the alcohol back with a well-practiced flick of his wrist, closing his eyes as he savored the burn and pointedly ignoring the assholes still staring at him.

"What, the tortured not screaming loud enough for you?" growled the older Winchester, rolling his eyes derisively.

Instead of snarking back, Crowley just paused, took a deep breath, and gave a beleaguered sigh. "What do you want, Squirrel? I seriously have things to do."

_'He really does look kinda tired'_, observed Sam idly, but unwilling to comment. The demon's Armani suit was wrinkled, his shirt-collar unbuttoned, and his loosened red silk tie hung askew. There were furrows of stress in his face that weren't usually visible, radiating out from the dark circles beneath his eyes, and his shoulders actually slumped subtly in exhaustion despite being viciously wrenched back. He hid it well, but it was obvious on close observation that the demon was beat. Not that Sam cared all that much; after everything Crowley had done to the brothers, the reinstated King of Hell was lucky not to be shot on sight as a matter of principle.

Of course, it begged the question as to why their summoning circle hadn't worked. They hadn't wanted Crowley; they'd specifically summoned the 'First Demon', and the King of Hell had appeared instead. Maybe Dean was right; maybe it was a title given to whoever was in charge of Hell at the moment. If nothing else, they could go with Dean's second suggestion and ask the crossroads demon about the obscure title.

Dean was obviously thinking along similar lines. "Yeah, sunshine, my heart's bleedin'," the older Winchester responded to the demon sarcastically. "Look, the sooner you answer our questions, the sooner you get out of here and back to your 'business'."

Rather than snapping in reflex, Crowley visibly bit back his instinctive retort and dropped his chin to his chest for a long moment in silent consideration. Internally he took time to viciously suppress the panicked pounding of his heart at a sudden mental flash of Naomi 'questioning' him, then took a deep breath and straightened his back, pulling his tattered dignity around himself like a cloak. He raised his head and managed to meet the older hunter's eyes with a challenging smirk. "Well, darling, ask away," he rejoined in a sultry tone which seemed to derail the group of men once more, all of whom remained silent. Lids at half mast, the demon glanced provocatively from Dean to Sam, then beyond them to Castiel, before finally giving it up for a lost cause. He straightened angrily, dropping the teasing façade, and in exasperation bit out, "So? Come on, come on, ask your questions; contrary to popular opinion, I haven't got forever."

"Yes, right." Sam swallowed, jolted back to the current problem. He decided to try being direct and asked, "Are you the 'First Demon'?"_ 'Hey, it's as good a starting point as any.'_

Crowley was momentarily nonplussed and blinked rapidly in silence as he considered the question. _'What the Hell are they playing at?'_ , he wondered. _'These are the assholes that tried to burn my bones. They __know__ I'm a Scottish tailor, not a Fallen Angel.' _ A smug grin spread slowly over his face as he realized, _'Unless… they don't know who or what the First Demon is!'_

"Well, well. I'm flattered, boys." He swirled his tumbler to distribute the melting ice, then continued, "While I may be King of Hell, I've nowhere near the age or experience of the First Demon." His self-satisfied smirk stayed in place as he took a slow, deliberate sip of his whisky, savoring both its peaty taste on his tongue and the frustration on their faces at his oblique reply.

"So, it is Lucifer. Sam thought it might be, but Cas disagreed." Dean was clearly angling for more details, much to Crowley's poorly-disguised amusement.

He chuckled silently and decided to play along. What the heck; his paperwork could wait a few minutes, and their attempts to subtly ply him for information were frankly hilarious. "Well, two points for the angel," he remarked, holding his glass up in a sardonic toast. "While Lucifer may have many other names and titles, 'First Demon' isn't one of them."

"So who is it, and how can we find him?" Dean wasn't in the mood for these games. Castiel seemed to be worsening by the hour.

_'Fine, if they're going to spoil my fun...' _ Crowley frowned, spreading his arms in an unspoken question. "Why do you need…. ?" he began, squinting, then shook his head violently as he reconsidered. Raising one index finger, he closed his eyes and continued, "You know what? Never mind. I don't want to know. I've got my hands full trying to clean up the mess Abaddon made while she was putatively 'in charge'." He made sarcastic air quotes with his fingers. "I don't need to get involved in the latest Winchester craziness." Much as he might have liked to; he would never admit it aloud, but he actually enjoyed the time he spent taunting Team Free Will. They were almost… friends, especially Dean, even if they never saw him the same way. Tossing back the last of his current drink, he arched his eyebrows and asked, "Far be it from me to actually help a pair of hunters and an angel, but why don't you just cast a generic demon summoning circle and insert the title 'First Demon' in the appropriate spots?"

"That's what we did, asshat, and we got you instead!" Dean gestured expansively at the circle at Crowley's feet. He was annoyed that Crowley had come up with the same idea that Sam had, and let the irritation seep into his tone. It was easier to deal with than his worry for Castiel.

The demon actually blinked again in surprise, then studied the sigils surrounding him with sudden interest. Up to that point he'd not paid much attention to them, but careful scrutiny confirmed the older Winchester's statement; the hunters had not actually meant to summon him. But why on Earth….?

He refilled his glass and then set the empty crystal decanter on the floor by his feet. Standing once more, he sipped it absently as he contemplated the design surrounding him on the concrete floor. He finally came to a conclusion and grunted, "Huh. I would have expected this circle to work. The Enochian must somehow translate to 'Ruler of Hell' in this context." He fell silent again, swirling the remnants of ice in his glass thoughtfully. It didn't make sense, though it was the only possible answer. It explained why Moose had asked if he were the First Demon, too. If the three really didn't know to whom the title referred, then they weren't intentionally trying to annoy him or waste his time.

After a few moments, Dean's impatience overcame his good sense. "So? You know who the First Demon is or not?" he demanded.

Pulled from his thoughts, it was the demon's turn to roll his eyes. "Of course I do," he acknowledged, a corner of his mouth tilting up mockingly. He spread his arms to the side as a caveat. "At least, I know who he is theoretically. Don't have the first clue on how to find the bugger, though." He took a considered gulp from his glass.

"So? Who is it?" asked Sam expectantly when Crowley seemed unwilling to continue.

The King of Hell widened his eyes in faux innocence, blinking rapidly. "Why should I tell you?" Then, angrier, eyes narrowed, he spat, "You know how this works, boys. What's in it for me?"

"The sooner you give us the information, the sooner we let you go," answered Castiel in his gruff, matter-of-fact monotone. Crowley wasn't certain, but the angel seemed hoarser than usual.

He filed away his observation as he wrinkled his nose at the bluntness of the offer. "Really? That's it? That's the best you can do?"

"Yeah, well, you already said you didn't know how to find him," shrugged Dean. "So I guess all we're offering today is your freedom for a little information. Take it or leave it, douche bag. You can rot in there for all I care."

Crowley's response was a reflection of how exhausted the demon truly was. His eyes slid closed, then he tightened his lips as he, surprisingly, seriously considered the offer. It was better than the hunters usually managed, and he had no desire for any more of their dungeon's questionable hospitality, thank you very much. Plus, he really had to get back to his office. 'Damage control' didn't _begin_ to cover his workload, thanks to that Knight of Hell. Best to make this as brief as possible, even if it meant giving them free information.

Opening his eyes again, he shot them a frustrated scowl. "Throw in 'no more summons for a week' and you've got yourself a deal."

Dean raised an eyebrow in surprise. "A day," he bargained out of habit.

"Three," countered the demon.

"Done," Dean accepted quickly, before Crowley could add any clauses or stipulations. It was hard to believe the demon was capitulating so easily but best to not look a gift horse in the mouth. The sooner they got some blood from this First Demon, the sooner they could try to heal Castiel.

To the hunter's amazement, the crossroads demon acknowledged the deal with a small nod and no complaints. He didn't even insist on his traditional kiss.

"Fine," Crowley sighed. _'Best to just get it over with.' _ He snorted and pasted on a condescending sneer. "I guess you boys haven't been reading your Bible recently, or you'd know the answer without my humble aid." The demon glanced expectantly from face to face with a self-satisfied smirk, rocking back and forth on his heels, sure that the hint about the Good Book would trigger a light bulb above someone's head. As moments ticked by with no response other than confused stares, he threw up his hands in exasperation. "Genesis? The Garden of Eden? Anybody?" When everyone still stared at him blankly, he clarified in amazement, "The Serpent, you morons! The snake who offered Eve the apple?"

"The First Tempter?" asked Castiel. "But he is a Fallen Angel like Lucifer, not a demon."

"Technically correct." Crowley was mollified that at least the angel knew basic scripture; it was just a matter of definitions for him. "Nevertheless, the denizens of Below have always referred to him as the 'First Demon'. I suppose it's because he invented original sin."

"Wait, wait! That really happened? The whole Garden of Eden shtick?" Dean demanded, wide-eyed and frankly incredulous.

Crowley stared at the hunter in disbelief. "After all your experience with angels, demons, and even Cain, you find the concept of Eden and the Tree of Knowledge somehow beyond your ability to accept?"

Dean glanced away, mildly embarrassed. "Well, when you put it like that…" he shrugged.

"So how do we find this… snake?" interrupted Sam, saving his brother from further awkwardness.

Their prisoner sighed, then stared at them as if they were particularly stupid five-year-olds. "I already told you; I… don't….know!" He enunciated each word as if he were spelling it out for a first grader. He dropped his head to glance at the circle again, then muttered, "I don't even know why your summoning circle didn't work."

"You're the King of Hell; shouldn't you know where your minions are?" suggested Castiel doubtfully.

"I seem to recall Heaven losing track of you a time or two, darling," Crowley snarled, then took a deep, calming breath. He spread his arms wide, palms up, emphasizing his lack of knowledge. "Look. He's been stationed on Earth since Adam was cast out of Eden. His reports, sporadic at best, simply… stopped… sometime around 1990 or '91. With everything else going on, no one ever bothered looking for him." He shrugged nonchalantly. "I understand that he wasn't a particularly evil demon anyway, and hasn't really been missed. Rumor has it that he went native."

"Went native?" queried Dean suspiciously.

"He had been trying to blend into human society so long that he became indistinguishable from them," explained Castiel. "Became more human than demon in attitudes and beliefs."

"Well, who would know where this demon is if _you_ don't?" Dean interrupted sharply, dragging the conversation back to the main point. The longer this dragged on, the more irritable the elder Winchester became.

Crowley couldn't bring himself to care. He'd tried being friendly to these men, and all he got in return were repeated kidnappings and death threats. "Try that bitch Naomi," he growled, savagely suppressing any reminder of his nightmare. "After all, as I understand it, she's in the _business_ of gathering information."

"She's dead," responded Castiel, then tilted his head curiously as Crowley's eyes widened in shock. "You knew her…" the angel hazarded.

Since Crowley had reacted visibly to the pronouncement, he figured he had earned the question as punishment for putting his emotions on display. Still, there was no way he was going to be pathetic enough to complain about having bad dreams. _'Sod it,'_ he thought, then cleared his throat uncomfortably before assuming a sinful leer meant to fluster the righteous angel. "Yes, well. I knew her once in Mesopotamia… biblically speaking, that is." He vividly recalled his own shock at discovering that the willing young woman he had seduced was in fact an angel, but again, had no intention on sharing that little tidbit either.

"Whoa, whoa, hold up." Dean interjected in disbelief. "An angel… and a demon?" He narrowed his eyes skeptically.

To Crowley's surprise, Castiel responded before he could dredge up a suitable response. "She was not a nice person, Dean. _She_ was the one who ordered me to kill you, and forced me to perform a number of other reprehensible acts against my will." It was his turn to look uncomfortable. "I believe the pair of them would have found many commonalities upon which to build a relationship."

The demon grinned wickedly and projected a self-satisfied, debauched air, while internally he silently applauded Castiel's disapproval of the woman. "Well, I don't know about a _relationship_, but the sex wasn't half bad." The demon was about to go into lurid detail when the younger sibling interrupted.

"Wait a second," Sam sounded as if he were working out a particularly difficult puzzle. "I thought you were originally Fergus MacLeod, a tailor from the 17th century." It was not quite a question; it sounded more like Sam was confirming facts he already knew.

Crowley frowned at the apparent non sequitur, shoving his hands casually into his tailored pockets. He was actually a little put out by the interruption. "Yes, that's right," he snapped. "Your point?"

"How could you have known Naomi in Mesopotamia?"

"For the love of….", the demon rolled his eyes. "It's really quite simple, Moose. When a man and a woman are attracted to each other…," he began, but then paused, his own brow furrowing as he recognized the paradox to which Sam had been referring. He glanced aside in confusion, avoiding Gigantor's gaze. "Hold on, that can't be right."

The demon's eyes went wide and glassy as he stared at the floor and was obviously suddenly… absent. His empty crystal tumbler slipped from nerveless fingers and crashed to the cement unnoticed as he gazed blankly at nothing. He didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even blink as he stood in the unbroken circle, seemingly hypnotized.

After a few minutes the elder Winchester shifted uncomfortably. "Crowley? You with us man?" Dean would never admit it, but this behavior was concerning. The demon was, relatively speaking, one of the more reliable denizens of Hell, honorable for given degrees of honor, and was at least a known quantity. They'd never be 'besties', but overall Crowley was relatively easy to work with, as long as you didn't trust him as far as you could throw an elephant. Right now, they needed him awake and cooperative, not catatonic. Castiel's life might depend on that. Dean's worry ratcheted up a level when the demon remained unresponsive to his questions.

"Mr. Crowley," rasped Castiel, breaking off in a fit of coughing that had him doubling over. Dean was beside him in a heartbeat, pounding his back as if he were choking, and Sam moved closer in case he was needed.

While the brothers offered whatever aid they could to the ailing Castiel, their prisoner dreamily murmured, "Yes, Angel?" He then blinked rapidly, shaking his head and visibly yanking himself back from whatever psychological abyss had held him thrall. He seemed oblivious to his own mental holiday and glared daggers around the room as he snapped, "Are we quite finished?"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean decided not to push the issue and scraped a pole across the edge of the ceiling trap, breaking the circle, before returning to Castiel's side.

Crowley straightened visibly as he felt his demonic power return, then carefully cinched up his tie and brushed away the single drop of blood that had oozed unnoticed from the corner of his eye. "Thank you," he saluted mockingly with two fingers before blinking out of existence.

No sooner had he vanished than Castiel sagged with exhaustion. He was caught and supported by the two hunters as they eased him into a nearby chair. He sat very still, breathing heavily and trying to recover his strength.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" asked Sam gently.

Castiel nodded; there was no point in lying. "I'm afraid so."

Dean glanced between the two of them, all his attention now firmly focused on the dying angel. "So, is someone going to tell me just what the fuck just happened? What was that crap Crowley pulled?"

Elbows resting on knees, Castiel craned his neck up and stared at Dean grimly. "Naomi."

"Naomi?" Sam echoed in confusion. "Crowley's supposed angelic girlfriend?"

"She was one of the first of us. From the beginning it was her job to gather information and punish any minor infractions she discovered, referring the larger ones up the chain of command. While she may have performed her duties honorably in the beginning, my _personal_ experience with her involved mind control, forced amnesia, and even murder through unwilling puppets to cover her tracks." He paused, carefully choosing his next words. "Metatron executed her."

"So at least that dickwad did _something_ right," growled Dean.

Sam ignored him and knelt next to their shaking friend. "What does she have to do with Crowley?" he asked gently.

"I believe that, like myself, he has been subjected to her personal brand of questioning and mind control."

Sam's brows furrowed in confusion. "What makes you think that?" he asked.

Castiel looked him directly in the eyes to emphasize his point. "Two things. When confronted with a logic conflict, he… 'zoned out', I believe is the term. I have observed this whenever Naomi's memory implants are incompatible with some shred of legitimate recollection that wasn't erased. If so, either the memory of his life as a 17th century tailor or his recollection of Mesopotamia is false, and therefore implanted."

"She could do that?" Dean was appalled. "No fan of Metatron here, but I'm kinda glad he ganked the bitch. That sounds almost demonic to me."

"Is that why his eye was bleeding?" asked Sam consideringly, ignoring his brother's commentary.

"Undoubtedly. That is why I am certain our demon has undergone her special 'therapy'. She had a device that she introduced into the subject's brain through the ocular cavity to perform her more complex mental manipulations; one side effect is that the eye literally weeps blood when the control walls are breached." He paused, grimacing at an unpleasant memory. "Ironically, Metatron used that device to kill her."

Dean crouched next to Sam as he stared intently at an exhausted Castiel. "Honestly, I'm glad she's dead, and I don't care if she played hopscotch in that bastard Crowley's brain; the only important thing is whether or not we can trust his information about the First Demon."

Castiel nodded immediately. "Yes, I believe we can. He did not show evidence of her mental tampering until we pointed out the discrepancy of a 17th century Scottish peasant interacting with the angel Naomi in Mesopotamia." He paused, then added consideringly, "Additionally, it makes logical sense that the title 'First Demon' refers to the Serpent; the spell to restore depleted Grace is in Enochian and requires the First Demon's blood. A demonized human would have little intrinsic mystical power. A Fallen Angel from the Great War? The source of original sin?" He glanced up to see Sam nodding thoughtfully. "That creature's blood would be very, very powerful." He covered his mouth with his fist as another coughing fit assailed him, his face turning vaguely purple. Dean put a supportive arm around his shoulders as Sam hurriedly retrieved a glass of water and handed it to him. Castiel nodded gratefully, sipping when he could catch his breath.

When the attack abated, the angel looked even more pale and wrung out than before. He closed his eyes and leaned into the support the older Winchester still provided, having not moved an inch. After a moment he sighed, sitting up once more and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Dean shot Castiel a gentle half-grin. "You still up for this?", he asked solicitously.

"Yes. At least, I will be by the time the summoning circle is complete." The angel's voice was even more raspy, and he took another deliberate sip of water in the hopes of clearing his throat.

"We'll get right on that, then," Dean responded, carefully avoiding coddling their ill friend. Instead, both brothers headed for the center of the room, where Sam began to modify the Devil's trap to hold a fallen angel while Dean carefully erased the 'First Demon' circle and began to draw one to summon the 'First Tempter'.

TBC…


	2. What's in a Name?

**Chapter 2 - What's In a Name?**

Meanwhile, back in Hell, Crowley grumbled in frustration. _'Damn Winchesters,'_ he thought. _'Always wanting something. Acting like my only purpose in life is to do their bidding.' _ He made a beeline for the bar in his office. _'And what is the likely reward for all my assistance? Moose and Squirrel will try to kill me - AGAIN.' _He began to examine his collection of fine wines. _'Bugger the paperwork; my head is killing me. Dealing with those idiots could give a saint a migraine!'_ With a contemplative hum, he pulled out a dusty bottle of dark red wine and studied the label. With a nod, he smiled to himself. A glass of 1945 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti and a long, hot soak was just what the doctor ordered.

Pouring himself a glass of the exquisite Pinot Noir, he took a moment to savor its aroma, eyes sliding closed in appreciation. Louis Francois le de Bourbon sold his soul for the vineyard that produced this wine, but Crowley felt the man got a bargain. No single soul was worth the produce of these grapes. He took a small sip, letting it sit on his tongue as he inexplicably thought of the pomegranates of Eden. Eventually he opened his eyes, snagged the bottle by its neck, and meandered towards his richly-appointed bathroom, waving a hand to draw the tub full of hot, soapy water as he approached. He banished his clothes with another wave as he shut the door, isolating himself from the worries beyond. The room temperature was perfect and he luxuriated in the sensation of cool marble tile on his bare feet as he padded towards the tub.

Easing himself into the fragrant bubbles, he relaxed in the water with a sigh and set the goblet and bottle on the ledge that had been specially-made for just that purpose. For long minutes he concentrated on nothing at all, intermittently sipping the wine and letting the warm water ease away the ache of his muscles. Finally he set the glass aside and allowed himself to float, keeping his mind carefully blank. He didn't want to think about anything at all, just for a few minutes respite. The water was warm, the wine was soothing, and no one was getting past the wards he had on the bathroom door, so, pardon the phrase, he was safe as churches… His breathing slowed and deepened as he slipped away…

_The road was crowded, but that just added to the fun of doing 110 down Oxford Street in the middle of a sunny afternoon. The purr of the meticulously-maintained engine rumbled through his bones like a heartbeat as he flew around a corner on two wheels. The Blaupunkt belted out Mozart's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' at full volume (the classical tape had been in the Bentley for over a month) and all was right with his world. Crowley laughed with delight as he took a roundabout the wrong way, terrorizing the other drivers, then did it again just for the evil looks he was getting from oncoming traffic. The wind tousled his hair artfully as he ran a red light, and he grinned at a bad job well done as the traffic snarled in his wake. What a perfect day! _

_He turned the wheel effortlessly towards Soho as he pushed his sunglasses back up his nose; a day like this could only be improved by a good dinner with better wine and pleasant company._

_No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he was seated in the Ritz. He realized that he was dreaming, but the subdued lighting reflected off the Chateau Lafitte in his glass, throwing tiny diamond sparkles onto his plate and the linen-white tablecloth. The prime rib had been truly excellent, and the wine was the perfect accompaniment. _

_"So you see, by Francis' reasoning, it's simply ineffable." An intensely bookish man with mussed, overlong curls sitting across the table had finally gotten around to making his point, even if Crowley had long since stopped listening to the actual words. Not the type of dining companion one might expect for a demon of his status; the corn-silk blond man was slightly pudgy and almost inappropriately animate, his delicate, well-manicured hands fluttering about to emphasize his point. His face almost glowed with his true belief in the goodness of humanity, and his naturally golden hair danced around his head like a halo. His voice was deceptively soft, almost musical in quality, and quite pleasant to the ear. In fact, it was so pleasant that its sound had kept Crowley from interrupting the monologue ten minutes earlier. Unfortunately, they had reached the point in the conversation where Crowley was expected to respond, and he was blessed if he knew what the conversation was about._

_"Well…" he drawled slowly, parroting the few words that he actually recalled hearing, "You can't believe everything Francis says just because it's Francis saying it. And the word 'ineffable' is bandied about a little often by your side, don't you think?" He picked up his glass and swirled it a bit, watching the play of light and shadow it created, before bringing it to his lips and taking a sip. _

_Perfect. _

_His dining companion just stared at him in astonishment for a moment before a fond smile graced his lips and he shook his head in exasperation. He then picked up his own wineglass in comfortable silence and took a sip as well. After setting it down once more, he cocked a knowing eyebrow at the demon. "You have absolutely no idea what we're talking about, do you Crowley?" The man didn't seem upset by his conclusion, to judge by his good-natured chuckle._

_"Not a clue, Angel," replied the demon, raising his glass with a sincerely warm smile. "Cheers!"_

_The other man snorted, grinned ruefully, then raised his own glass and clinked them together. "Cheers!" he replied in perfect contentment. They sat in companionable silence, and when that bottle was done, they ordered another._

Crowley slowly shifted, realizing that his bath water had gone cold as he drowsed. With an absent wave he heated it again, warming it enough to finish bathing as he tried unsuccessfully to recall the dream that was rapidly slipping away. All he managed to remember was a general sense of well-being and happiness, as well as hazy amusement. He felt that there might have been a blond thrown in the mix, but he wasn't certain. Still, the pervasive impression of safety and comfort persisted long after the dream had completely vanished, and Crowley had very little that was pleasant in his life lately. Of course, the fact that a dream could make a demon happy was unbelievable, but it was true nevertheless. He'd not been able to experience any significant emotion prior to those demon trials, and he'd found he'd liked them. "And they wondered why I was injecting human blood," he snorted. Everything had felt so much more intense, so much more real when he was subject to that addiction.

As Sam had worked on 'curing' the demon, Crowley had begun to consciously experience emotions that weren't believed possible for denizens of Hell. Sorrow, regret, shame… these had washed over him in waves, swamping him. He hadn't a clue what to do about the feelings, though. Who could a _demon_ ask for forgiveness, anyway? God? Not bloody likely.

And the memories that accompanied those feelings! Some were bright, clear, razor-sharp visions of deals made and crimes committed since first becoming a crossroads demon up to the present day, all of which he regretted with every molecule of his reviving soul. Others, specifically the sins of the centuries between his own mortal death in Scotland and the last twenty-five years, were more like misty shadows, wispy and blurred. When he tried to focus on them, something deep inside seemed to be clawing to get out, struggling to be free. Instinctively Crowley had known that Sam's ritual would release whatever it was, and he'd been surprisingly disappointed when Dean rushed in at the last moment and stopped the final incantation. Even though he was certain that the current 'Crowley' would be irreparably destroyed, a deeply-buried part of him welcomed the destruction as its due.

But Dean _did_ stop the trial. And then the sky began to fall.

Crowley had stared up _through_ the church rooftop in both horror and wonder as angels plummeted from Heaven for what felt like hours. He was unpleasantly jerked back to reality when Dean seized and man-handled him into the hastily-emptied trunk of the Impala. He glared at the devil's trap painted on the underside of the trunk lid in affront as it closed over him, leaving him alone and powerless in the dark.

He knew he needed to start deciding on a course of action to deal with that upstart Knight of Hell, Abaddon, but he couldn't seem to concentrate enough to scheme. Other memories kept forcing their way into his brain and, worst of all, he didn't think they were even his. Vague, random snippets of a life he'd never led: feeding ducks at a pond; drinking wine in the backroom of a bookshop with its drunken, congenial proprietor; the scent of sun-warmed leather as he slid effortlessly into the driver's seat of a powerful vintage car; the gratifying trembling of houseplants striving to be the most verdant and lush in the apartment as he threatened them mercilessly. Flashes of these images, and hundreds like them, kept disrupting his train of thought every time he got to plotting. Worse, the emotions that accompanied the visions were overwhelming, particularly the forgiveness that enveloped him whenever the bookstore owner was involved.

The images only lasted for a few days, during which he was stuck in the car trunk. They gradually ebbed, allowing a breathing space and time to plot.

Then he fell asleep.

The dreams were mostly nightmares at first, with the accompanying horror-filled panicked awakenings. But some were… nice. He felt warm, and safe, and… loved for hours after waking from them. They were a surprising source of comfort, yet they were also a source of frustration. There was a blond stranger who recurrently appeared in the nicest dreams and was crystal clear while Crowley was asleep, but became muted and indistinct the minute the demon woke up and tried to remember any details about him. It was almost as if his own mind was blotting out the man, leaving just a vague impression of a pleasant, middle-aged, frumpy blond librarian that was for some reason very, _very_ important.

At first Crowley had idly wondered if these were memories of the literary agent whose body he occupied, since they certainly weren't _his_. While Fallen Angels and Knights of Hell could have 'one owner from new' bodies created especially for them, demons of his status had to make do with 'previously-owned' bodies, often with the original owner still in partial occupancy. If that had been Crowley's current circumstance, then he wouldn't have worried about them.

However, the demon had never liked sharing. Years ago, upon finding himself unaccountably incorporeal, he had waited until an appropriate vessel was vacated and then took immediate occupancy, making the phrase 'meat suit' truer than usual. Working his way up to King of the Crossroads, it was easy to simply peruse the lists of contracts coming due and be on hand when a body he wanted was abandoned. The literary agent's soul was long since in the bowels of Hell, leaving only his empty husk behind. No soul, no memories; at least in theory. Perhaps the body itself maintained some type of neurologic electrical imprint that had been activated by the energy of the spell to 'cure' a demon? Or perhaps these were Sam Winchester's memories, transmitted by his purified blood? Crowley's logical mind decided that scientific experimentation was definitely indicated.

The easiest theory to test was that the dreams were memories of the person donating the blood. Asking Sam about the dreams was out of the question; experience had repeatedly proven that the demon could never trust anything a _Winchester_ told him, and the younger brother was surly enough that he probably wouldn't answer at all. And if they _were_ Sam's memories? The hunter might easily see it as an invasion of privacy, or even a possible threat, and kill Crowley while he lay bound and helpless at their mercy. So the King of Hell had insisted on Kevin Tram's blood instead of Sam Winchester's; if the blood carried the memories, some of the Prophet's recollections might end up in Crowley's brain, which would be a very useful side effect. Unfortunately, he'd simply had more vague impressions of the huge, antique black roadster and the tow-haired bibliophile with the amiable face and the terrible fashion sense.

As soon as Crowley was free again and had a moment to himself, he'd intentionally possessed a different body and gone to sleep to see if the visions changed. They hadn't, so they apparently didn't belong to the literary agent's physical body. His unconscious hours were still devoted to mysterious scenes in unknown locations, again often involving a frumpy, middle-aged blond man in reading glasses.

The demon finally decided that he couldn't waste any more of his precious time worrying about where the dreams came from. They were probably just some weird side effect of the humanization process, like the emotionality that kept clouding his thinking in those first weeks after his release from the Winchester's prison. Besides, both the emotions and the dreams seemed to be fading with time. His focus needed to be solely on that upstart Knight.

Still, despite all logic to the contrary, he missed the vague sense of comfort the _good_ dreams provided. So when he discovered that he could regain them, as well as the fascinating new emotions, by injecting himself with human blood… well, how could he resist? The enveloping impressions of acceptance and camaraderie that resulted were worth the side effects of wallowing in his new-found addiction.

Still, Hell (and to a lesser extent, the Winchester boys) were depending on him to fight Abaddon, so he had to get his head on straight. He knew he had a real problem when that third-rate siren had sold him up the Styx. He couldn't force himself to abandon the reassurance, the sense of _rightness_ that the dreams provided, so he phoned the Winchesters. The hunters had no qualms about locking him up again in his old filthy cell to detox. As time passed he tried in his own awkward, demonic way to replace the fading imaginary security blanket with real live friends. Not only did the brothers rebuff every cautious friendship overture he'd made (usually behaving as if he wasn't worthy to lick their boots), but they actively tried to kill him with the First Blade. That psychic slap to the face brought him back to his demonic senses; what the Hell had he been thinking? Friends with the Winchesters? Impossible.

He'd thrown himself single-mindedly into defeating Abaddon and then, once she'd been destroyed, into reclaiming his throne and restoring order to the chaos left in her wake. When the Mark of Cain so necessary to his defeat of the Knight had the unforeseen side effect of turning Dean into a demon, it looked like fate was finally smiling on him. For a short time, Crowley thought he knew what real friendship felt like. It felt good.

Of course, nothing good ever lasts. Dean was uncontrollable and worse, killed the man who had sold his soul. Crowley couldn't allow deals to be broken, not on Hell's end, or Abaddon's chaos would return. Dean not only denied being his friend, but he was bad for business, so Crowley had to let him go. When he forced the borrowed Grace upon Castiel and told him to take care of Dean's demonic nature, he'd said, "I'm not sentimental".

Of course that was the biggest lie to pass his lips in years.

Crowley still didn't know the origin of the good dreams, or if they were simply a manifestation of his own subconscious in 3-D surround sound. He still recalled to his horror and shame crying out, "I deserve to be loved!", while in the clutches of the last part of Sam's curing process. Now he resigned himself to the fact that, while he might feel that he deserved to be loved, the universe obviously believed otherwise. So, when sleep came upon him now, he no longer resisted. The poorly-recalled imaginary companion of his good dreams was likely the only friend the demon would ever have.

It really didn't matter any more. The dreams didn't impede his waking decision-making, and didn't require regular blood injections to maintain. Additionally, he didn't need to debase himself trying to make real life friends as long as the indistinct imaginary one visited his sleep. No one could chastise him for the behavior of a make-believe buddy, nor try to emulate someone they couldn't see. He didn't waste time reminiscing about the fun they had, since he could never clearly remember the dreams once he was awake. 'A win-win for everyone', he decided, stepping carefully out of the tub. The soak and wine had done wonders for his mood; he was almost cheerful as he reached for one of his ultra-thick bath towels to dry off. He murmured under his breath, "Enough with the maudlin self-pity. Next time I'll see if I can't dream up a few supermodels."

-.-.-

"You ready?" Dean asked Castiel as he finished double-checking Sam's containment ring. The angel still looked wrung out, with dark circles beneath his eyes and a growing pallor to his skin. Still, the angel nodded affirmatively.

"Yes, I believe so. I have inserted the Enochian term for the 'First Tempter' and 'Serpent of Eden', in the positions indicated for the name of the First Demon." He struggled to his feet and moved to his position at the head of the circle.

Sam stood from rechecking Dean's work as well and brushed his knees off. "So… even if this demon is trying to fly under the radar, we should be able to summon him here?"

"That is what the wording of the spell implies. It not only results in a strong compulsion to appear, but actually dematerializes the being wherever he may be, reassembling him in this room."

"Doesn't mean he has to help us," grumbled Dean under his breath.

"He will if he ever wants to leave," responded Sam, matter-of-fact. "It'll work." He smiled reassuringly and jerked his head subtly towards the ailing angel, who was studying both inscriptions.

His older brother shrugged and looked chagrinned. "Sorry," he said quietly, shaking his head. "It's just that we've not had a lot of luck so far."

"I know." Sam smiled fondly for a moment, then clapped his hands together. "So, shall we?" he asked, glancing expectantly at the other two men.

At their nods, the brothers began walking around the circle lighting the candles and Castiel began to chant. The soft, steady droning in Enochian was reassuring; Castiel had memorized the spell perfectly, inserting the heavenly name for the Serpent of Eden seamlessly into the flowing words. The tone gradually rose in volume as the power in the room palpably grew and the summoning circle began to glow. It finally reached a climax with a loud clap, bang, and puff of smoke. A vaguely humanoid shape in the center of the ring was barely visible through the mist. It seemed to be contorting awkwardly, and there was a suggestion of a rectangular cloth flapping about.

Coughing, Dean waved the fumes from in front of his face as he tried to get a better look their guest. Unfortunately, when the smoke finally cleared enough to see, a stunned silence blanketed the room.

Crowley slowly stood, terry bath sheet in hand, from where he had been bent over drying his feet. The cold, murderous hellfire burning in his eyes was offset by his dripping, tousled hair, making him look simultaneously both extraordinarily dangerous yet vaguely ridiculous. Small rivulets ran unnoticed down his neck, and Sam suppressed a snicker. Crowley's white knuckled grip on his towel tightened as he hissed between gritted teeth, "Enjoying the ssshow, _boyssss_? That was the fassstesssst three daysss on record, even for you."

Dean couldn't resist needling the demon as he distantly wondered about the new speech impediment. Ignoring it for the time being, he dramatically clapped a hand over his eyes and exclaimed, "Have some decency, dude! Put on some clothes!"

Sam was never so grateful for a binding circle as he was at that moment. Crowley's glare could have melted marble as his hands clenched into claws at his side.

The demon's eyes narrowed dangerously, prior good mood evaporating like mist. "I would love to," he replied in a low, deadly voice. "Mind telling me how I'm sssupposed to get _at_ my clothessss with that little mural on your ceiling?" He pointed, shaking with anger, at the circle above his head. He wouldn't admit even to himself how much it hurt him to be trapped like a common demonic thug by someone he'd once thought of as a friend. He practically snarled at Dean, "Either break the circle, _or DEAL with it!_" His eyes widened as he sarcastically snapped, "Or, here's a thought: maybe don't use a 'compelling' summons when _I'm taking a bath! _" The demon king was actually panting with red-faced rage by the time he finished his rant.

A battered but serviceable trench coat was suddenly thrust in front of him. Crowley's furious raving derailed abruptly as he blinked at it in surprise.

"Take it. At least until we figure out what went wrong and can release you." Castiel carefully kept his eyes on Crowley's face and spoke quietly and objectively. His arm extended fully into the circle with the proffered article of clothing, ignoring the imminent danger posed by an infuriated demon.

Crowley, at a loss for words, reached out slowly and silently accepted the coat. He methodically shrugged it on and then nodded curtly and visibly reined in his anger. He never liked showing weakness, and letting his temper get the better of him was certainly one that could be exploited. He knew that the older Winchester would be perfectly willing to do so, particularly after their recent encounters.

"Thank you," he grudgingly muttered in the direction of the ailing angel.

Castiel dropped his arm to his side, unsurprised to find it unmolested. "You're welcome," he replied with a polite nod of his head.

Mollified, Crowley began toweling off his hair. Might as well figure out what the wonder twins were up to now. "So, I'm guessing I was summoned by mistake…again?" He threw his hand over his heart melodramatically and continued, "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride…. you could give a girl a complex." He batted his eyelashes with exaggerated coyness.

"I am afraid that it was my fault this time," responded the angel apologetically. "I assumed that the Enochian name for the Serpent of Eden would be the correct title to insert into the sigil, as the rest of the spell is written in the heavenly tongue." Off to one side Dean bristled preemptively, ready to defend Castiel if Crowley verbally attacked. Instead, the angel found himself trying to suppress another coughing fit, and was only partially successful. Sam wordlessly handed him another glass of water, which he sipped gratefully.

Rather than lashing out, the demon's attitude improved dramatically at the explanation. He seemed gratified that at least _this_ time the Winchesters weren't jerking him around intentionally or worse, trying to ridicule him. Crowley waved a hand, dismissing the error. "Don't worry about it, Feathers. Mistakes happen." He studied the clearly-ill angel carefully before asking suspiciously, "Is this rigmarole all for you? Something wrong with your new Grace?"

Castiel nodded in silent agreement and sipped his water, not bothering to ask how Crowley had figured it out.

Suddenly surprisingly agreeable, the demon king clapped his hands together and exclaimed cheerfully, "Well then, let's get this thing sorted, shall we? Show me where the personalizations are in the array."

Sam, standing quietly to the side, moved forward to point out the appropriate runes despite the objecting noises coming from his older brother. Crowley ignored Dean as he narrowed his eyes to study the symbols, then muttered, "Tempter? Isn't that a little vague?"

"With this curl on the end, it more accurately reads 'First Tempter', which is the name Heaven gives the Serpent," Castiel explained.

"Ah. I see." Crowley raised an eyebrow in mild amusement, then glanced up at the Winchesters. "Boys, despite my current position, I'm still_ King of the Crossroads._ That would make me the highest-ranked, or 'first', tempter in Hell. No wonder I got yanked from my bath."

"Do you have a better suggestion?" snapped Dean in frustration.

"Why not use his demonic name?" their captive reasoned.

"Demonic name?" asked Castiel, with a confused tilt to his head. "That's what we did originally - 'First Demon'."

"No, not his title." The King of Hell rolled his eyes. "His _name_: 'Crawly'."

Sam blinked in disbelief, then blurted, "Really?"

The demon shrugged, then grimaced. "Hey. I never claimed that the denizens of Hell were either bright or original." He glanced around the room, then arched a sarcastic eyebrow. "You got a crayon and some paper? I'll write out the symbol for you. After all, I want it done correctly."

The brothers exchanged a glance, then retrieved a pen and tablet from a nearby desk, ignoring his jibe about the crayon. Once the requested materials had been provided, the demon knelt on the floor and carefully mapped out the requisite symbols on the paper. Standing once more he squinted, critically surveyed his work, then nodded once in satisfaction. "Right. That's got it." He proffered the tablet to the group without hesitation.

Dean reached over carefully, eyes never leaving Crowley's bemused yet cooperative face, and snatched the paper without resistance. "You're being uncharacteristically helpful. What's the catch?" he demanded suspiciously.

The demon snorted in derision, shaking his head. "No catch. Pure self-interest." The corner of his lip briefly quirked up at the irony of the situation. "The sooner you stop yanking me out of Hell by _accident_, the sooner I can catch up on my _real_ work."

"Anxious to get back to the torturing biz, huh? What, you got some hot dame on the rack right now?" Dean barely glanced at the paper before passing it over to Sam and Castiel.

Both corners of Crowley's mouth twisted up in a mocking grin. "I wish," he chuckled darkly. "Unfortunately, I actually still have a ton of paperwork to muddle through." His smile grew a little chagrinned as he shrugged, "It is Hell after all."

Dean couldn't suppress a brief snort of amusement. At a nod from Sam, he scraped through the edge of the circle on the ceiling. "Right. You're free to go. Again." His voice dropped to a mumble as he forced out, "Sorry 'bout that."

The demon smirked smugly at the almost inaudible apology, then snapped both hands. Instantly he was clothed in his typical stylish and expensively tailored suit. Turning, he threw out as an afterthought, "Oh, Feathers? Thanks for the loan." He proffered the angel's overcoat, which Castiel accepted with a nod, silently noting that it had been magically laundered. The King of Hell shot him a real smile and gave a short wave. "Ta, now." With another snap, he was gone.

The weakened angel stared intently at the space the demon had occupied a moment before as Sam and Dean began adjusting the summoning and binding circles once again. The elder Winchester finally glanced up from his work in concern. "Something wrong, Cas?"

"Just thinking," replied the angel. "He is never quite what I expect."

Dean looked quickly at Castiel's point of focus, then back to his face. "Who? Crowley? He's a demon. He's the King of Hell. What more is there to know?"

"Perhaps…" Castiel's eyes now stared unseeingly at the far wall. "But unlike most of his brethren, he follows his own admittedly skewed moral code. I have recently noticed that he behaves more honorably than do many denizens of Heaven."

Dean sat back on his heels and considered the sentiment. "Yeah," he said after a pause, recalling Naomi, and Metatron, and Gladreel. "Yeah, can't argue with you there." Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his work. "Right now, let's just worry about getting you fixed up, all right?"

Castiel nodded slowly, then stood in contemplative silence as he fingered his coat's spotless lapels.

TBC…


	3. We Need a Miracle

**Chapter 3 - We Need a Miracle**

Crowley tightened his lips in disgust as he glared at the mess on his desk. The paperwork had apparently multiplied like rabbits in the short time he'd been bathing and then baiting the Winchesters. Still, it had to be done, so he shook his head in resignation, rolled his shoulders, and sighed. Sitting down again, he pulled the top sheet off his new 'urgent' stack and scanned it before picking up his pen and making notes in the margins in blood-red ink.

He worked steadily for several hours before his eyelids began to droop once more. By this time he was almost halfway through, banishing each file to it's appropriate department as he signed it or returned it for revision. He was fairly proud of the progress he'd made this time, so gave into the urge to fold his arms on the desk and pillow his head on them. _'I'll just rest my eyes for a moment,_' he thought, and was asleep in less than a heartbeat.

_The pond stretched before him, sparkling in the sun. Fortunately, his sunglasses cut the glare to more tolerable levels. A few men strolled in pairs around the water's edge, chatting clandestinely as they adjusted their fur-trimmed collars and somber scarves against the chill of the late-fall day. Four or five of the more demanding ducks waddled after the one pair that had made the mistake of actually feeding them earlier. Crowley gazed over their heads to peer at the signs of a bustling city projecting above the tree line. Shoving his hands deeper in his pockets, he shivered a bit as he waited. He had never really liked the cold._

_He startled as a crumpled paper bag full of old breadcrumbs was pressed unceremoniously to his chest. "So sorry I'm late, my dear. I just received a new shipment and had to catalogue them before I could leave the shop."_

_"No problem, angel," he replied, reaching for one of the larger chunks of stale bread. Glancing back at the pond, he was amused to note the flurry of expectant waterfowl that was rapidly moving in their direction. Even the ones following the spies had turned around and were now waddling towards them. Pulling his arm back, he hurled his bread as hard as he could towards the center of the water. One of the slower ducks now found itself unexpectedly closest to the windfall, and delightedly snatched up the offering._

_And promptly sank._

_Crowley felt an elbow in his ribs and restrained the urge to laugh aloud. "All right, all right," he chortled, waving a hand in the direction of the submerged waterfowl. It promptly popped to the surface and shot him a reproachful glare which made the corner of the demon's mouth tilt up in amusement._

_"I don't know why you insist on doing that," reprimanded his companion good-naturedly. He took a handful of bread and tossed it gently on the water, spreading it out among the birds to minimize the fighting. The duck Crowley had fed looked at the new crumbs suspiciously before swimming closer to snatch up his share. The demon shrugged noncommittally._

_A comfortable silence drew out as the two man-shaped creatures continued to scatter breadcrumbs on the lake surface. After a bit, his blond companion spoke again. "I sold a book this morning…" he began._

_Crowley felt an unexplainable pang of sympathy. "Oh, I'm so sorry, angel," he commiserated. _

_The frumpy bookseller smiled and tugged absently at the hem of the hideous tartan sweater that peeked out from beneath his rumpled overcoat. "It's all right. It wasn't one of the Bibles - just part of the new inventory Adam used to fill in the gaps. I suppose it's just the principle of the thing, really."_

_"Quite," responded Crowley, returning his hands to his pockets now that they had run out of bread. After a moment he added, with a wicked smirk, "Can I tempt you to lunch? There's a new Indian place I've been meaning to try."_

_"Sounds lovely." The shorter man beamed up at him as if the sun rose and set in his face, then looped an arm through the elbow that crooked of its own volition. "Shall we?" _

_They strolled away from the water's edge, arm in arm, enjoying the late fall sunshine. Suddenly it didn't seem so cold anymore._

The King of Hell awoke slowly, aware that his neck had a crick from the odd position he'd fallen asleep in. Stretching, he rolled his head to work it out, then stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Another good dream. He'd been having more and more of the good ones lately, and yeah, they were definitely addictive, particularly since Dean had kicked him to the curb. If this kept up, he'd be happily spending half his time asleep, even without the details that fled upon waking. His conscious mind knew that the indistinct but affable man with the atrocious fashion sense would never have given him the time of day in the waking world, not if he couldn't even befriend a demon Winchester. His imagination was just playing some sort of inscrutable trick on his psyche's need for love, and he knew that he'd be better off forgetting about the dream world altogether.

But still….

Groaning, he picked up his pen and got back to work.

"So, ready to try again?" Dean clapped his hands together in forced cheerfulness as he strode over to the angel. Castiel had resumed his seat in a chair to save his failing energy, and looked up from the modified spell in his hands to nod.

"Yes." He stood on shaky legs, then took a deep breath as Dean's hand automatically darted to his elbow to steady him. Neither man commented, so the hand stayed in silent support. Castiel was grateful.

The procedure went pretty much the same as before, now with 'Crawly' inserted where 'First Tempter' had been. Just to be certain, they had redrawn the entire array. Once again there was a clap, a bang, and the room filled with smoke.

When it cleared, the three men found themselves wide-eyed and gaping in disbelief.

Crowley was in the center of the circle _again_, this time thankfully fully-clothed. A sheaf of parchment was clutched in the white-knuckled grip of his right hand, and his nose sported reading glasses. He slowly and deliberately lowered the contract to his side and then, with a sigh, let go of his anger as he reached up and removed the glasses. His shoulders slumped in resignation and he closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and groaned, "I'm not going to get anything done until you find Crawly, am I?"

Sam shrugged in mute apology, then unhesitatingly reached up and scratched through part of the specialized devil's trap for a third time. "Looks like," he admitted ruefully.

Once released, Crowley waved absently and the papers and glasses vanished. "Let me see what you've done this time." He crouched down next to the summoning circle and carefully checked the inscriptions, his brows drawing together in confusion. "This… all seems correct," he grudgingly admitted. Standing, he held out a hand imperiously. "The spell you're using? _It_ must be in error."

Castiel wordlessly handed over the paper with the Enochian chant. The demon meticulously examined each word, confusion growing in his face by the minute.

"This… seems correct as well." He didn't bother to hide his displeasure as he muttered aloud.

Next the demon pointed at the paper as he addressed the angel. "How do you pronounce this word?"

Castiel read it aloud, and Crowley nodded in agreement. Scrolling down, he indicated another word, then another. Castiel enunciated each as it was indicated, with the demon nodding after every one. Finally, he handed the document back to the angel with a sigh and a shake of his head. "Much as I hate to admit it… you did this right. I have absolutely no clue how the magic is mixing up 'Crawly' and 'Crowley'. They don't even remotely resemble each other in Enochian or the demon tongue."

"So, what do we do? We need some blood from this 'First Demon' to heal Castiel." Dean snarled, frustrated.

Crowley looked pensive. "OK, you're using a routine summoning spell, right?" At a nod from Sam, he continued, "And so far you've tried the phrase 'First Demon', then 'First Tempter/ Serpent of Eden' in Enochian, and finally 'Crawly' in the Demonic tongue?"

"That is correct," responded the angel.

"Well, what about his _real_ name, then?" At their once-again-confused expressions, he groaned, then elaborated, "His angelic name before he fell?"

Castiel shook his head. "The name was lost ages ago. He is only remembered as the First Tempter."

Crowley grimaced in disbelief. "Come on; _someone_ must know. Don't you people keep records?"

"I suspect Michael or Lucifer might know, but they are not really an option at this point. Metatron probably knows as well, but I wouldn't trust him not to withhold it out of spite or worse, provide the wrong name." The angel considered, then shook his head. "I cannot recall any other elder angels who are still alive to ask."

Crowley's eyes narrowed angrily. "Maybe I could force the information out of that asshole Metatron. While he might not know, it would be gratifying to watch him squirm."

The outburst actually brought a small smile to Castiel's face. "Agreed. However, I do not have time to waste on retribution."

The demon pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. "Borrowed Grace. Right. Got it. I'll pop down and get my boys to work on finding Crawly the old fashioned way. Clearly you aren't going to bring him to you with this circle, so you're going to have to go to him."

"I thought you said Hell had lost track of him," accused Dean, crossing his arms and glaring.

Crowley flashed him a disparaging smile. "We have. Still, a Fallen Angel? Power that great is going to have a hard time staying hidden if anyone is _really_ looking for it." He shot a pointed glare at the diagrams on the floor and ceiling, then arched an eyebrow pointedly. "And trust me when I say that Hell is going to be _REALLY_ looking." He smirked with wry humor. "Nothing personal, but the Bahamas this is _not_. I'll be in touch." He blinked and was gone.

Sam was the first to break the silence as the three stared at the spot where the demon had just disappeared. "We need to research the Serpent of Eden, now that we know that's who the phrase 'First Demon' refers. The Men of Letters probably have some information on him if he's been on Earth all this time. Maybe they knew some way of contacting him." He headed out the door towards the main section of the Bunker.

"Right." Dean seemed pleased to be able to do something active, even if it was pawing through dusty old records. He turned to follow his brother, only to pause and glance back at the motionless angel. "Cas, you coming?" When there was no reply, he raised his voice. "Cas? Something wrong? This staring after Crowley is getting a little weird, man."

Castiel shook himself as if from a trance. "No. No, I…. was just thinking…"

Dean tried to be patient, even though he was anxious to get started. "What is it?" he asked.

"What if there was really nothing wrong with the summoning spell?" the angel pondered aloud, staring blankly into the middle distance.

A look of confusion crossed Dean's face, then he blurted in disbelief, "What, you mean _Crowley_ might be _The Serpent of Eden_?!" He snorted. "The bastard would have been shoving that in our faces on a regular basis for years now. After all, he boasts about being 'King of Hell' often enough. Besides, we met his _son_; we found his bones! He's some peasant dipwad from the 17th century who wanted a bigger dick."

"And who remembers having a relationship with an angel in ancient Mesopotamia," reminded Castiel softly.

Winchester frowned, pursing his lips and nodding. "Yeah. There is that. And you're pretty sure Naomi messed with his brain." The last was not a question. "Still, that's quite a jump in logic. Even assuming that Naomi could capture and manipulate a demon as powerful as Crowley, why would she want to? I thought her shtick was interrogating and punishing angels."

"I do not know," Castiel replied. "I cannot explain it."

Jerking his head towards the hallway, Dean smiled. "Come on. Let's see if we can find some answers."

Castiel slowly nodded agreement and followed him out the door.

There was leftover Chinese in the fridge when they broke for food hours later. As he pulled a carton of fried rice out of the microwave, Sam asked, "So, what do we know so far?"

"Well, Crawly was given his own body when he was cast out of Eden, rather than having to possess someone else. The records I found indicate that he's tall, thin, dark-haired and handsome. Looks about 25 years old. His main identifying characteristics are his yellow eyes and slitted pupils… like a snake, not like Azazel. He usually wears sunglasses to hide them." Dean spoke rapidly around a mouthful of chow mien. Swallowing, he continued, "Of course, that 'having his own body' thing might have changed if he ever got killed."

"The Tempter's job was to sow discord and lead people to evil. An angelic counterpart was assigned to humanity for balance." Sam paused to take a bite of his own food. "Haven't found out much about him yet."

"The Guardian of the Eastern Gate," contributed Castiel. "He was a Principality."

"So you know about this?" asked Sam.

"What Eastern Gate?" asked Dean simultaneously.

"Of Eden." Castiel was succinct. "This pair are likely the origin of the human concept of an angel and devil sitting on man's shoulders giving advice."

"Well, wouldn't this Principality have to keep tabs on the Serpent if he was supposed to combat him? Plus, even if he didn't, he ought to be old enough to know the demon's angelic name. We should talk to this guy," decided Sam excitedly. "Cas, does Heaven know where _he_ is?"

Castiel shook his head slowly. "Any records we have are in hopeless disarray right now, after everything that has happened. I do not even know the Principality's true name." He frowned unhappily. "Again, Metatron might know, but is unlikely to tell us... truthfully, at any rate."

"Damn." Dean, whose head had risen hopefully at the conversation, dropped his eyes and angrily chomped another mouthful of his food.

"Aziraphale," came the confident declaration, causing their heads to swivel to the kitchen doorway. Crowley sauntered in, one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around his usual glass of Craig, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "The Angel of the Eastern Gate's name is Aziraphale. But the Serpent? Couldn't find a thing beyond Crawly."

Sam, slack-jawed, blinked in stunned surprise. "That's… surprisingly useful information. How did you come up with that?"

Crowley shrugged, then pulled out a chair and dropped into it, setting his tumbler carefully on the table. "One thing we know how to do in Hell is keep accurate records. Filing reams of paperwork is an actual hellish punishment in some circles. I just had one of my minions pull all of Crawly's old reports, then I read through them." At that he fell uncharacteristically silent, staring at the water condensing on his icy glass as he swirled the liquor in it distractedly. Some of the incidents described had seemed… disturbingly familiar, even though he'd never bothered to read the reports before. He supposed he must have heard about them from other demons at some point, but he couldn't remember the exact conversations. He took a sip of his highball as he pondered.

No one else said a word as the silence stretched out. The demon appeared almost lost, eyes hollow and shoulders slumped. Sam and Dean exchanged bewildered glances, with Castiel studying them all. Everyone's attention returned to Crowley when he finally murmured softly to himself, "I can't believe I never read them before."

"Dude, are you all right?" asked Sam, striving for a tone of normalcy. Even as weird as life was on a daily basis, the demon's current behavior was beyond disturbing.

Crowley blinked and shook his head, coming back to himself with a start. "Yes. Yes, of course," he snapped. He snatched up his glass and took an angry gulp. "Just wondering why I accepted 'general opinion' as fact instead of reading the source material. Not like me at all. Implies trust, and we all know I don't do 'trust'." He smirked sarcastically at Dean.

"I am afraid that I do not understand," replied Castiel, for once speaking for the entire group.

Crowley took another sip of whisky, then met the angel's eyes. "Crawly. Don't know why I ever bought into the whole 'he wasn't a very good demon' tripe the Dukes of Hell kept spouting. That Serpent was bloody _brilliant_!" He nodded to himself, "Way ahead of his time, really."

"Oh, good at inventing new tortures, was he?" asked Dean sarcastically.

Crowley's lips turned up in a smirk as his eyes dropped demurely to his glass. "You could say that. But remember, he was stationed on Earth. As one of those 'new tortures', he created telemarketers. And email spam. Those little cards that fall out of magazines whenever you open them? They're his invention. Reality TV. Some road in England called the M25 orbital motorway. Cell phone dropout zones. Game shows. " He took a deliberate sip of his drink.

The Winchesters stared at him, mouths agape.

"I… still do not understand." Castiel remained confused.

"Count your blessings," responded Sam fervently, and his brother snorted agreement.

Dean turned back to the demon as he decided to steer the conversation back to the main topic at hand. "So, any idea where we can find this Aziraphale?"

The demon grimaced unhappily. "He's an angel. We didn't really keep tabs on him after Crawly went missing in 1990. At that time, though, they both lived in London." He fell silent again, lost in thought.

"Umm," Castiel cleared his throat, not really certain how to cope with a pensive yet cooperative demon. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Crowley," he finally hazarded.

The King of Hell's eyes rose to meet the angel's, mildly embarrassed at having gotten lost in his own thoughts, but covering it quickly. "Yeah, yeah. Like I said, pure self-interest." He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "I'm going back to my paperwork now, so try to manage without me for a few hours… if you can." A smirk, a snap, and he was gone.

The three stared silently at each other after the demon disappeared, until Dean threw up his hands and asked, "Now what? We can't just summon an angel, and he's got no reason to respond to our prayers."

Castiel grimaced. "I'm relatively certain that he wouldn't answer. I recall something about he and the Metatron having a… rather vehement parting of ways back in the early 1990's; he hasn't been heard from in years."

"I like him already," grinned Dean. "So… what do we do about restoring your Grace?"

Before Castiel could dismiss the question, Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well, there's another incantation I found that might help… but it's pretty unpredictable."

Dean leaned forward while Castiel waited in silence. "So? Let's hear it."

"It's… a spell for requesting 'a miracle'. Apparently it's been used by the Men of Letters on several occasions. The 'miracle' always occurred within twenty-four hours, but ranged from the sudden discovery of a book they were unaware of having to…" here he glanced guiltily at Dean, "a car wreck where they accidentally killed the witch cursing them."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Really." He pointed a finger meaningfully at the other two occupants of the kitchen. "OK, if we try this, no one goes near Baby for a full day, capisce?"

Castiel and Sam glanced at each other, shrugged, then nodded.

"OK, then, I guess it's worth a shot."

TBC…


	4. Mr Fell

**Chapter 4 - Mr. Fell**

Mr. Ezra Fell, owner of Fell's Rare Books in Soho, sat behind the rickety counter of his dusty store, filling out that morning's crossword in his meticulous copperplate script. He was a pleasant man in his early fifties, the gray at his temples belying his otherwise corn-silk blond hair. He had a bit of a spare tire visible beneath his faded sweater-vest, reflecting a lifestyle more devoted to study than to physical activity. The angles of his face were pleasantly rounded but emphasized his small, sad, omnipresent smile. He wore an old, threadbare, white button-down shirt beneath the tartan jumper, and tan slacks that were at least a decade out of fashion and well-worn, but clean. The wrinkles in his face spoke of once frequent laughter that would be hard to imagine now. At the jingle of the bell over the front door, vivid ocean-blue eyes snapped up from the morning paper to focus on the intruder.

His melancholy visibly lifted as he recognized the kindly face of the neighborhood postman who was struggling beneath a bulky package. The shopkeeper stood quickly, rounding the counter to help.

"Good day to you, Mr. Saunders! What have you there? I'm not expecting any deliveries." He hurried to take the box from the older man who was trying to juggle both his normal bag and the carton.

"Good morrow to you, too, Mr. Fell. You might not be expecting anything, but from the weight I'd wager that someone has sent you quite a few books here. If you would mind signing for the delivery?" As the merchant relieved him of the heavy package and turned to set it on the dusty countertop, the mailman dug out a battered clipboard with a crumpled receipt ledger attached. He proffered it, as well as an old Bic pen, to the middle-aged bookseller, who smiled softly in return and scrawled his name across it at the indicated line.

"Certainly, certainly." He looked at the postman hopefully. "I don't suppose you'd like a spot of tea? It's just that I have a kettle already on, and it would be no bother at all." He mentally sighed, briefly recalling a dark-haired young man who used to drop by to share a cup of Earl Grey and some stimulating debates. The mailman might not be as interesting a conversationalist, but at least he was company for a few lonely hours.

The deliveryman smiled politely but shook his head. "Fraid not today, Mr. Fell. I have a heap of deliveries to make, and I'm way behind schedule." He put a hand to his lower back, stretching. "On top of everything, my back is killing me. It's no joke, this getting older business."

The bookish man's face fell but he nodded in understanding. "All right. Perhaps next time. Hope you feel better soon!"

The mailman waved goodbye even as he pulled open the door once again. Mr. Fell, staring after him, made a small gesture with his hand and the departing man's lower back assumed a nearly-unnoticeable glow. By the time he got home that evening, his back pain would be gone.

Ezra nodded in satisfaction, then turned to his unexpected package. At least he had a mystery to occupy his attention for a few moments. Upon examining it, he found that it was from one of his more dependable suppliers, so he hastily peeled the packing tape off to check inside.

On top was a letter of profuse apology, explaining that the contents of the box had been set aside for Mr. Fell ages ago, but had somehow never been posted. They regretted the inconvenience, and would forego all shipping charges associated with this order. The book dealer carefully set the letter to the side and began examining the interior of the package.

A number of oddly-sized, leather-bound tomes of significant age lay carefully layered between soft paper. He removed each in turn, examining their pages and mentally categorizing their condition before setting them to the side to evaluate the next. This continued until he reached the oversized folio at the bottom.

Reaching in carefully with both hands he murmured, "Well, well, what have we here?"

The title proclaimed it to be the "Conundrums of Esau", and Mr. Fell's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, my…" he whispered, gently cracking it open to the title page. "1743? It's a first edition!" He leafed gingerly to the back, holding his unnecessary breath. "Oh! The equations appendix is intact. Amazing." Closing the tome as carefully as he had opened it, he clutched it to his chest with a sigh. "I suppose that this means I'll be making that trip to America after all."

Turning the sign on the door to 'closed', he picked up the phone to book the next flight out of Heathrow.

Late the next morning, Sam was pouring his second cup of coffee when Dean stumbled into the kitchen. He glanced up from the book he was reading as his brother lurched blearily to the coffeepot to pour his own dose of caffeine.

He waited with an amused smile until Dean had inhaled a good swallow before asking quietly, "How's Castiel?"

Dean grunted, "Still asleep in the guest room. I left him alone - thought he could use the rest."

"Probably," agreed Sam, returning to the ancient book he was searching for information.

"Anything on the 'miracle' front, yet?" Dean asked once he finished his first cup and started a second pot.

"No, not yet," replied Sam distractedly, turning a page.

Dean was about to make a comment about research and bookworms when a loud knocking echoed through the Bunker, followed by the buzzing of the doorbell. The brothers stared at each other for a moment, startled.

"Do you think that's it?" asked Sam, eyebrows raised in disbelief, despite the fact that the spell had been his idea. "The miracle?"

The ancient incantation had been rather anticlimactic, without even a puff of smoke or flash of light to indicate that they'd done it right. Sam had rechecked the wording three times, but finally decided that it had been performed correctly, and planned on waiting the full twenty-four hours before trying again. It had already been eighteen, so he was reexamining the text for discrepancies when the sudden knocking surprised them both.

"Miracle, or coincidence." Dean's eyes narrowed dangerously in suspicion as he pulled a gun from his belt. "Let's go find out which." The two jogged quietly to the door, Dean hiding out of sight just behind the hinges, making certain he had a clear shot if necessary.

Sam peered through the security hole at their visitor. On the doorstep fidgeted a short, frumpy, pleasant-appearing older man in wrinkled slacks, button-down shirt, and a tartan wool pullover vest. He was of average height and slightly plump, rather like a librarian. The lines in his kindly face reflected both sorrow and dignity, as well as a sense of long-ago laughter. He was glancing anxiously around the yard as he clutched a rather old, dusty book to his chest like a baby. His curly, graying blond hair bounced and shimmered as he moved, framing his face like a halo.

With his brother safely concealed from view beside the doorframe with his gun drawn, Sam opened the door with his most innocent expression firmly in place. Their visitor turned, sunlight flashing on his wire-rimmed glasses, and Sam suddenly found himself pinned by a pair of intensely deep sea-blue eyes that echoed timeless wisdom. The man's nervous movements stilled as he concentrated his full attention on the hunter.

"Excuse me, young man, but I am looking for Albert Magnus." The visitor's soft, polite British accent belied the sharp eyes that still seemed to probe Sam's soul. The younger Winchester was suddenly nervous, instinctively wondering if he measured up before he clamped down on the sensation as ridiculous.

"I'm afraid that there's no one here by that name." Sam infused polite regret into his tone. While it _was_ the name the Men of Letters gave whenever undercover, no one had used it since 1958. It was unlikely that the rumpled, congenial man standing in their entryway had even been alive at that time, much less had enough dealings with the Bunker to know their code name.

He felt an unexpected stab of guilt at the other's suddenly crestfallen expression. "Oh. I'd thought that…" He glanced down regretfully at the book in his hands and sighed. "I guess I just assumed… I mean, I always… the Men had this list…" he stumbled to a verbal halt and stared at his shoes. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." He raised pleading eyes and softly asked, "I don't suppose… do you know where the former occupants went?"

'Occupants', plural; and he'd mentioned 'the Men' having a list. Against all odds, their fidgety guest was trying to contact the Men of Letters.

"I'm afraid that the place was uninhabited when I moved in."

"Oh." The visitor was, if anything, even more despondent. "Sorry for bothering you, young man. I would have phoned before coming, but I didn't have a current number." He turned away and began trudging glumly back towards a tiny white rental car parked nearby.

"What do you suppose he wanted?" grumbled Dean under his breath, peering around the edge of the doorframe at the retreating figure.

There was something about the resignation in the slumped shoulders that told Sam that letting the man drive off would be… well, not the worst mistake he'd ever made, but a bad mistake nevertheless. "I don't know, but I'm going to find out," he replied and, before his older brother could stop him, was running out the door.

"Hey! Hey, Mister!" Sam caught up to the smaller man just as he reached his car.

"Yes, my dear?" While still disappointed, the ancient blue eyes held a glimmer of interest as he turned towards Sam.

Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Bunker, where Dean now stood, flabbergasted, in the doorway. "The… former owners of the place left a lot of books and papers behind, if you needed something…?" He trailed off suggestively. If the man wanted to use, or even attempt to steal, part of their occult library, this would be the perfect verbal opening.

The curly head shook negatively as a small smile graced the man's lips. "No thank you, although your offer is quite tempting. I own a rare books shop in London. Mr. Magnus and his… associates have a standing list of requested titles in our store's files." He glanced at the book in his arms, then back up at the young hunter. "This particular tome was rare enough that it required personal delivery, you see."

Sam blinked. There were occult books that the Men of Letters didn't already own? It made sense that, if so, they might have lists of desired volumes at _very_ select, and very trusted, shops all over the world. He regarded the aged tome clutched to the other man's chest with sudden interest. If it had just been discovered after all this time, it might literally be their 'miracle', or at least direct them to it. Time to take a chance.

"That must be a very unusual book," he hazarded.

The blond merchant nodded solemnly. "And potentially dangerous in the wrong hands. As… Mr. Magnus… is not available, it seems I was right to hand deliver it."

Sam gestured back to the door. "Perhaps I can help you after all. Won't you come inside for a moment, Mr….?"

"Fell." The shorter man stared up at him uncertainly and held out his hand. "Ezra Fell, of Fell's Rare Books. Pleased to meet you, ummm…"

"Sam Winchester," replied the hunter, shaking the man's hand.

Mr. Fell's eyes widened. "Henry's son?" he asked breathlessly, suddenly excited. His grip got almost uncomfortably tight.

Sam was confused, and gently freed his hand from the other man's. "Grandson, actually. How did you..?"

Ezra smiled beatifically, and it shone like the sun emerging from behind the winter clouds. He patted Sam affectionately on the chest. "Never mind. Shall we go inside?" He turned and began striding with determination back towards the door where an incredulous Dean waited.

As the two passed him, he hissed "What the hell, man?" to Sam, who made shushing gestures as he followed the book dealer inside. Their scholarly visitor strode purposefully forward as if he visited every day and knew the floor plan of the bunker by heart.

He headed unerringly to the main library and carefully set his parcel on the center table before turning to address the two hunters. He crossed his arms with determination and steel could be heard beneath his pleasant, clipped tones.

"Now, what happened to the Men of Letters?" he demanded with suspicion, fixing them both with that penetrating gaze.

"Don't know what you're talking about," attempted Dean, who received a narrow-eyed disbelieving scowl for his trouble.

Some instinct warned Sam not to lie to this man. Also, if he was familiar with the Men of Letters, he was likely comfortable with all things occult. The younger Winchester took a chance and was frank about the demon attack that had wiped out the group. "Abaddon massacred them in 1958. The bunker stayed empty until we moved in." He hesitated before plowing on, "You do know their purpose, don't you?"

"Of course, young man." Mr. Fell sniffed indignantly as if his intelligence had been questioned. "I would hardly be hand-delivering a first edition 'Conundrums of Esau' otherwise, would I?"

Sam's eyes went wide as he involuntarily glanced at the book resting on the table. "THAT'S 'Conundrums'?"

"You've heard of it?" Mr. Fell sounded pleased as he patted the ancient leather binding protectively. "One of fifty original copies from 1743, with the 'Equations' appendix surprisingly intact. Extremely rare."

"What the heck's 'Conundrums'?" demanded Dean, elbowing his way protectively in front of his awestruck younger sibling.

"Dean, that's like… the Holy Grail of hunters. Bobby used to mention it all the time, whenever he couldn't find the information he wanted about a monster in his own library," Sam hissed, sotto voce.

"And you are?" prompted Ezra firmly, steel blue eyes now fixed on the distrustful Dean.

Sam answered when it became clear that his brother was too busy trying to be silently intimidating. "Umm… this is my older brother, Dean Winchester. Dean, Mr. Ezra Fell."

"Charmed," smiled the bookseller, suddenly amiable, proffering his hand once again. "You're Henry's grandson as well? Always pleased to meet a Man of Letters."

Dean shook it perfunctorily, then folded his own arms and resumed glaring. "We're not Men of Letters," he snapped in correction. "We're Hunters."

"Really?" The shopkeeper gaped at him in amazement, then dropped his eyes sadly to the book. "I'm… I'm sorry. I thought that, as Henry's grandsons, maybe you needed my book… but I suppose that was wishful thinking." He gingerly gathered the volume into his arms, clutching it to his chest like a newborn infant. He glanced up apologetically at Sam through inhumanly long lashes. "I'll just be going now. Thank you for your time." He smiled sadly, then turned towards the door.

That galvanized the taller man to action. He leapt in front of their guest, pulling out a nearby chair and gesturing towards it. "No, no, Mr. Fell. Please, stay a while. Have a seat. Can I get you something?"

Their rumpled, tartan-clad visitor stopped dead in his tracks and stared up at Sam, blinking in astonishment over the top of his antique reading glasses. Then, with a tentative smile, hazarded, "Perhaps a cup of tea?" He set the tome back on the table and settled gingerly into the proffered seat. He demurely folded his meticulously-manicured hands in his lap and glanced curiously around the room, but made no move to investigate the library more closely.

"Yes. Tea. Certainly." The younger hunter wasn't even sure they owned a kettle, much less tea, but he was certainly going to try and find some. Before moving towards the kitchen though, Sam seized his brother's elbow to drag him along. "Dean, could you come with me for a moment?"

"Sam, I don't think…" Dean objected, only to be almost yanked off his feet by his younger sibling. He threw a sarcastic smile at Ezra, who returned it with a small, contented hum of acknowledgement and a nod. "We'll be right back," Dean threatened as he followed Sam through the door.

Ezra watched the two men leave with a bemused smile and chortled softly to himself; they were good boys. Despite the differences in both appearance and size, the two were clearly brothers that cared a great deal for each other. The older was the overprotective type, likely charged with the care of the younger since he was small. The younger, in turn, was insatiably curious, but wanted the approval of his sibling prior to any potentially risky endeavor, such as discussing their plans with a perfect stranger. While Dean might deny their being Men of Letters, Sam certainly was in spirit, if not title, and Mr. Fell suspected the older brother was as well.

He peered around the room curiously, but didn't get up; no need to rile Dean. _'Besides,'_ he thought, _'The room doesn't appear to have changed much since the last time I visited what….um, eighty years or so ago?'_ He shook his head sadly, suddenly feeling the weight of his years. _'These humans' lives are so very, very short. Maybe Adam was right about their needing to live longer to get anything done.'_ He sighed, and pointedly tried to avoid thinking of the one being with whom he used to comfortably share those sentiments. He was not entirely successful.

Once out of sight of their visitor, Dean turned on his brother, who was pulling a kettle out of a cupboard and blowing the dust off its surface. "What the hell, Sam? Should we really be leaving him alone in there unsupervised?"

Lighting the stove, Sam whirled towards Dean in frustration. "Yes, Dean, it's fine. There's a lot more to this guy than just a rare book dealer. Do you know how many first edition copies of 'Conundrums' still exist? Probably fewer than ten, almost exclusively in the hands of private collectors."

"Then there's no way we can afford it, Sam." Dean countered grumpily.

"Well, it doesn't hurt to talk to him; maybe he'll let us borrow it for a while. After all, he came here from _London_ looking for the Men of Letters." He paused, then continued, "I think this is our miracle. There must be something in that book that will either restore Castiel's Grace or help us find this First Demon."

"Who has arrived?" asked Castiel, who had silently entered the kitchen unannounced through the far door.

"Would it kill you to say 'hello' like a normal person?" exclaimed Dean, startling backwards.

"Hello, Dean. Hello, Sam. Who has arrived?" The angel took Dean's complaint as literally as ever, but persisted with his question.

Sam rolled his eyes as he added boiling water to a teapot he'd managed to dig out of a far cabinet. "A rare books dealer from London who has an unexpected delivery for the Men of Letters. He knows a huge amount about the Bunker and the organization, but _doesn't_ know that it was shut down for over fifty years. It doesn't make sense." He scowled at the tray with the pot, cups, sugar and cream before picking it up. "I really want a look at that book of his, Cas."

"Then I will make him give it to you," declared the angel.

"No!" hissed the taller man, balancing the tea tray carefully. Somehow he knew that it would end… badly. "Let me deal with this, OK? _Both_ of you." He glared pointedly at both the angel and his brother.

Castiel's brows drew together in confusion, but he nodded his agreement. "All right, Sam."

Dean just grunted.

The three of them returned to the library, where the amiable blond book merchant still sat primly in the chair where they'd left him, examining his surroundings with mild curiosity, hands comfortably laced in his lap. He turned to smile at them as they entered, only to have his eyes widen almost comically at the sight of their new companion.

"Castiel?" he exclaimed with delight, jumping enthusiastically to his feet. "Castiel, is that you? Let me get a good look at you, my boy!" He seized the younger angel by the shoulders, beaming at him, but his joyous expression morphed into concern as he took in the angel's face. "My dear, what on Earth has happened? You look exhausted! Come, sit down, sit down."

Before anyone really knew what was happening, all four were seated at the table and Sam was pouring tea.

"Do I know you?" asked Castiel, brows creased and head tilted to the side as he regarded Mr. Fell.

Ezra's eyebrows rose in astonishment, then he pursed his lips. "You certainly used to, my dear," he finally hazarded, meticulously manicured hands now wringing with anxiety. "I know it has been quite some time, and I've been a bit out of touch with Upstairs, but I would have thought…" he trailed off uncertainly.

Recognition dawned in the younger angel's eyes. "Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. We were just speaking of you yesterday. I was uncertain if you were still alive."

"What? Why ever wouldn't I be?" Their visitor took a deliberate sip of his tea to hide his surprise, but his hands trembled visibly as he set down the cup.

"Excuse me. You two know each other?" Sam asked.

Castiel suddenly remembered that there were non-angels in the room. "I apologize. Dean, Sam, this is Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and Principality of Heaven."

"I'm an angel, just like Castiel here." The frumpy bibliophile smiled delightedly into their faces at their surprise, his blue eyes now dancing with mischief, not unlike Gabriel's once had.

"I thought you were a rare books dealer," accused Sam, with a glance towards the still-unexamined tome. The reminder of the Trickster had unnerved him, and he suddenly wondered if this were an elaborate ruse.

"Oh, I am a bookseller, my dear. I've owned the same shop for over three hundred years." He pushed the volume towards the anxious young man. "The Men of Letters frequently contacted me for materials that they otherwise couldn't find. This one took me over seventy years to locate." He nodded towards the book that Sam had reverently picked up, watching him anxiously. He visibly relaxed as the younger Winchester carefully supported the volume's spine and turned the pages from their corners with obvious thoughtfulness. "It arrived unexpectedly yesterday from a supplier that knows my preferences. I got on the first plane to the States as soon as I realized what I had."

"Dean, this is amazing!" Sam was completely lost in his perusal. "This would have been invaluable in that case Jeremy had last month!"

Aziraphale beamed happily at his excitement, like a proud father hearing a stranger compliment his firstborn.

"Sam, about Castiel…" Dean began.

His younger brother glanced up, startled, and cleared his throat. "Right. His Grace."

Ezra took another sip of tea, then looked at the other angel in concern. "What exactly happened? Your Grace, Castiel?"

The younger angel folded his hands on the table and stared at them rather than meeting Aziraphale's worried gaze. "You've been out of touch with Heaven for quite some time…" he began tactfully.

The Principality drew himself up, eyes narrowing with true anger for the first time since Castiel's arrival. "I have declined any communication with that bunch of self-righteous bureaucrats for over two decades now," he responded grimly. "I have therefore fallen behind on the news."

Dean tilted his head and snorted. "Considering some of the things I've seen Heaven do to rebels," he jerked his head meaningfully towards Castiel, "you seem surprisingly brave, Mr. Aziraphale."

The visiting angel visibly deflated as the anger drained out of him, to be replaced by a mysterious melancholy. His lips twitched with a small, awkward smile. "Just 'Ezra' is fine. And it's easy to be fearless when you've nothing left to lose."

_'There's a story there',_ thought Sam, studying the angel's slumped, defeated shoulders.

Castiel cleared his throat to break the uncomfortable silence that followed. "In a way, my situation is the result of my own struggles with… Upstairs." He began to recount everything that had led to his now-dissipating Grace. It took another pot of tea to get through the Metatron's betrayal, defeat, and imprisonment, and on to the current state of Heaven.

Aziraphale looked stunned as he tried to take it all in. After a moment he swallowed and murmured, "Oh, my dear, dear child. How you have suffered!" His eyes held sympathy, but not pity. Reaching for Castiel, he clasped his pale, delicate hand gently over the younger angel's calloused one. "But you said that you were looking for me. Pray tell, how can I be of service?"

Castiel was completely wrung out by his narrative, so Sam spoke up. "We found an incantation that might restore his original Grace, but it requires very specific ingredients. We're only missing one, but we're having trouble finding it. We thought you might be able to help us."

Aziraphale's eyebrows rose as he nodded agreement. "Certainly, if I can."

"What do you know about the First Demon?" asked Castiel somberly.

Sorrow filled the ancient blue eyes. "He was an angel who Fell, my boy, didn't you know?" he whispered sadly. He cleared his throat, then continued, "Not with Luci, but only a little later. 'Sauntered vaguely downwards', he always used to say. He became the Serpent of Eden, the First Tempter."

"But where is he now?" Dean clarified. "We only need five drops of his blood for the spell, but no one seems to know how to find him. We figured that you and he must keep pretty close tabs on each other."

The corner of Aziraphale's mouth quirked up wryly. "That would be one way of putting it, I suppose. Or at least we used to." To Dean's surprise, the bookseller's eyes became bright with unshed tears before he hurriedly looked away, blinking rapidly. "I'm afraid I don't know where he is now, or even if he's still alive. You see, that was my punishment; Naomi took him from me." Castiel's eyes flew to the older angel's face, widening in surprise at the declaration.

"Wait, back up," objected Dean. "Naomi? Punishment? What are you talking about?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath and visibly pulled himself together. He fixed them each in turn with his intense stare. "As the only Earth-bound representative of our respective sides, the Serpent and I were adversaries on Earth for over six thousand years. We both became quite fond of this planet and the people who inhabit it. So, when Hell tried to start the apocalypse, we worked together to help prevent it." He shrugged with resignation. "Nether Heaven nor Hell was best pleased."

"I think I vaguely remember…." Castiel was visibly concentrating. "1990 or 91, wasn't it? Strange, I had forgotten completely until just now."

"Not unexpected. Adam muddled everyone's memory, blurring the details in their minds. Then he did his best to restore everything and everyone to what they would have been had nothing occurred. Unfortunately, his power didn't work on Above or Below nearly as well as on Earth."

"Adam?" asked Sam.

"The Antichrist," responded Castiel. "Or, at least, the first one." His eyes lit up in understanding. "That must be why Hell had so many potential antichrists this last time around…"

Aziraphale's eyes widened in alarm. "Oh dear! You mean they tried again?"

Sam raised a hand. "Yeah. This time it was me. But no power to adjust anyone's memory, much less warp reality."

"I suppose they learned from prior experience," supplied Aziraphale dryly. He dropped his eyes as he continued the story. "Anyway, like I said, Heaven remembered _something_. Or at least, the more powerful angels did. Naomi and her goons showed up in my shop about six months later, planning to escort me to her office for 'debriefing' and reprogramming, when my snake-friend arrived for our regular luncheon date. Naomi decided that he should be taken in my place as punishment for us both. She said that after she extracted the information she wanted from his mind, she would 'readjust' his memory to something more befitting a demon and hide his true nature. He wouldn't recall being a fallen angel, or the Serpent, or most especially… my friend. Then he would be discorporated and returned to the pit, and I would never see him again."

Castiel's eyes filled with sympathy. Then he imagined Dean being taken from _him_ in such a fashion, and they narrowed in anger. Naomi had almost managed worse, trying to force him to kill his human friend.

"But… wouldn't Hell have objected?" Sam asked, confused.

"Quite the opposite, actually." Aziraphale continued to stare despondently at the tabletop. " After all those millennia… he wasn't a very _demonic_ demon any longer. He literally wouldn't hurt a spider, although he did love to terrorize his houseplants." A small quirk of a smile at the memory. "His evil was more along the lines of traffic jams and door-to-door salesmen."

"That's what we heard," muttered Dean despite Sam's shushing.

Aziraphale continued, "Well, you can imagine that if everything angelic about him were suppressed, as well as all the tempering influence of his interactions with me over the millennia…"

"He… could become pretty evil." Sam said thoughtfully.

"And it would be my fault," whispered Ezra in despair. "Never mind not ever seeing my friend again; to know that his basic personality had been so radically changed for the worse, all because of my defiance of Heaven…"

""No, man. If anything, this is on Naomi." Dean scowled, crossing his arms. "Damn! I wish Metatron hadn't killed her, so I could do it myself!"

Aziraphale's eyes went wide. "She's dead? But… that means _no one_ knows what happened to… happened to…" he swallowed and looked away once more, visibly struggling to control his emotions. Watching his reaction, Sam was suddenly convinced that there was more here than simple camaraderie.

"You really loved him, didn't you?," asked Sam softly, gently laying a hand on Aziraphale's forearm. The angel bit his lower lip and nodded in silence, staring at the table.

"He was my best friend. I never got the nerve to tell him. After the almost-apocalypse, we went out for lunch or dinner at least once a week, and our regular philosophical debates began to happen on an almost daily basis." He gave a broken sigh. "I think… I may have unknowingly loved him for some considerable time." He shrugged one shoulder in resignation. "Now he's lost forever."

"Don't worry, dude, we'll find him. We need him, too." Dean looked from the visiting Principality to his own ill angel friend. "After all, Cas…"

Castiel raised his head to stare at the book dealer, eyes shining with a grim suspicion that stopped Dean's speech dead in its tracks. "Aziraphale…" the angel began carefully, "Could he now be potentially evil enough… to become King of Hell, given the right circumstances?"

"I suppose so…" Aziraphale began dubiously, only to be interrupted by Dean.

"Are you seriously back to that?" the hunter groaned, dropping his forehead to his hand, elbow propped on the table.

"Hear me out," the angel replied. He remained impassive as he ticked off each point on his fingers. "One: he reads, writes, and speaks Enochian, and did so even when he was not Hell's ruler. Two: he is surprisingly honorable for a demon, but not really so surprisingly for a Fallen Angel."

"Yeah, sure," scoffed Dean.

Sam, who had been listening thoughtfully, spoke up. "Actually Cas is right. Remember how pissed he was at those demons who were collecting souls earlier than bargained? He negated all their contracts and 'made an example' of the demons. And remember how he railed at Abaddon for not sticking to her deals?" Crowley's words echoed in his head. _"I have one rule: make a deal, keep it."_

Dean snorted in amusement. "Yeah, I thought he was gonna bust a vein on that one." He intentionally didn't mention Crowley's reaction to his own deal-breaking when he stabbed Lester instead of the man's wife.

"May I continue?" asked Castiel patiently.

Dean had the grace to look embarrassed as he muttered, "Sure, Cas. Sorry."

The angel just nodded. "Three: I am certain that, demon or not, he has experienced Naomi's unique form of hospitality." At this Aziraphale straightened from his despondent slump, eyes widening in surprise, and leaned forward. "Four: summoning circles for the 'First Demon', 'Serpent of Eden', and 'Crawly' all resulted in his appearance."

"Yeah, but he explained all that," began Dean doubtfully.

"Or he _rationalized_ it. Not the same thing," added Sam.

Aziraphale was almost vibrating with excitement by this point, wide eyes flitting from face to face. "This sounds quite promising," he finally managed to interject. "Who are you discussing?"

"That douche-bag demon, Crowley", snorted Dean.

Sam rolled his eyes good-naturedly at his brother's response and opened his own mouth to explain about the Crossroads King when he was interrupted by an audible gasp from Aziraphale, who had paled to an impossible shade of white and looked ready to faint.

"Hey, hey man, are you okay?" demanded Dean, forehead creased in concern as they all three focused on their visitor.

Aziraphale carefully brought his teacup to his lips with trembling hands and took a sip to calm himself. Setting it shakily back on its saucer, he nodded wordlessly, then swallowed. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes… it was just a shock."

Castiel exchanged a look of confusion with Sam, who shrugged. "What was?" he finally asked.

"Hearing his name after all these years… I guess I wasn't prepared." The rare book dealer managed another bit of tea, then stared unseeingly at the leaves in the bottom of his cup.

Castiel hazarded, "You mean the name 'Crowley'? Why would the King of Hell's name be so upsetting?" He sounded as if he already guessed the answer, but wanted to hear Aziraphale acknowledge it aloud.

The shorter angel looked up to meet his eyes. "Really? The King of Hell?" he murmured breathlessly. "But… that's my friend's name - the Serpent. The name of the demon you're looking for." He sighed and continued, "Well, originally it was 'Crawly', but he never much cared for that, so he changed it to Crowley millennia ago."

Castiel continued to address their guest as the others were still blinking in shock. "You said Naomi discorporated him. Would you recognize him if he occupied another body?"

Aziraphale was confused. "After Naomi got through with his mind? I'm not sure. Possibly. Why?"

Dean, having caught up, pursed his lips decisively and addressed his brother. "Sammy, I think it's time for another summoning."

TBC…


	5. These Dreams

**Chapter 5 - These Dreams**

"What now?" growled Crowley in irritation, summoned to the Bunker for the fourth time in two days. Rolling his eyes, he took a step forward and spread his arms placatingly. "Look, I told you before; I've got people working on finding Crawly. I just need a day or two."

Sam cleared his throat. "Actually… we might have already found him."

Crowley's eyebrows rose incredulously. "Really?" He glanced pointedly around the room. "Why am I here, then? You could have just called." He held up his cell phone and waggled it meaningfully. "I know you have my number."

As if in answer, a slightly pudgy, bookish blond man stepped out from behind the other three and peered nearsightedly at the impatient demon trapped in the circle. He reached a hand forward and murmured, "Crowley…?"

The demon squinted one eye and studied the stranger. He looked… uncomfortably familiar, somehow. "Do I know you?" he finally muttered. Despite looking like a introverted librarian with absolutely no sense of style, something about the tartan-clad man with the mussed golden hair screamed 'angel'. Maybe he'd seen him with Feathers before? There was no halo, no visible wings, no overbearing sense of smug superiority, but still… the visitor's identity seemed just on the edge of his mind.

"I'm _sure_ I've seen you somewhere before," he murmured almost to himself this time, ignoring the rest of the room while staring transfixed at the stranger. The Winchesters and their angel remained silent, watching the scene play out. Their guest pushed his glasses up on his nose but otherwise stood immobile and stared hopefully back at the demon. He didn't answer, and Crowley found himself growing unaccountably nervous. He glanced down and was embarrassed to discover that he was fiddling awkwardly with his own cufflinks. He forced himself to straighten, pulling his self-confidence on like a cloak, and jutted his chin forward in defiance. "It's on the tip of my tongue…" He trailed off, staring at Aziraphale in confusion, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

The angel slowly stepped forward into the circle, certainty flowing over his features. "Oh, my dear Crowley…"

"What are you doing?" demanded the demon, trying to hide his alarm but taking an involuntary step backwards. "Get back! Dangerous demon here."

"Dearest, I'm not going to hurt you. It's me… it's Aziraphale." The angel had his hands out as if approaching a skittish colt, a reassuring smile on his face.

Curiosity stopped Crowley in his tracks, and he blinked in surprise. "The Guardian of the Eastern Gate?" That made no sense; he was _sure_ he'd never met the Principality, but the face was so _familiar_… At the angel's small, sad nod, the demon quirked up the corner of his mouth ironically and shoved his hands in his pockets in feigned nonchalance. "So, did _you_ tell the boys where to find Crawly?"

Aziraphale held his position just inside the circle, keeping his arms spread to emphasize that he meant no harm. "Oh my dear." He couldn't keep the sorrow from his tone.

Crowley's forehead creased in confusion. "Wait. Was I wrong? I thought you and Crawly kept pretty close track of each other over the millennia. "

"We did. Then there was an aborted attempt at an apocalypse in 1990 that he and I played minor roles in stopping…" the book dealer began.

Rather than questioning the possibility of a prior attempt at Armageddon, the King of Hell nodded in understanding and ignored that detail as unimportant. "Ah. So Hell exacted punishment." He stared at the ceiling as he ran through his memories. "Funny. Down Below usually makes a huge spectacle of that sort of thing, to serve as an example to others. Yet I don't recall a whisper of Crawly being disciplined - just missing."

The Principality's voice reflected the shame and misery now so evident in his face. "No, dear. Not Hell - they were content to pretend the whole debacle never happened, and then try again." He gestured at Sam as Exhibit A. "No, this was punishment from _Heaven_."

The demon wrinkled his nose, frowning. "Wait, that makes no sense. Why would Heaven punish the _demon_ rather than… What am I saying?" He rolled his eyes. "Of course Heaven would punish the demon! After all, we make _such_ convenient scapegoats," he snarled, pursing his lips as if he'd eaten something bitter and glaring pointedly at Castiel.

"No, Crowley. Taking you away was the worst punishment Naomi could devise for _me_."

The room fell silent as the demon's eyes flew back to the Principality as he tried to assimilate that statement. As the meaning slowly sunk in, a thundercloud of anger covered his face. "Let me get this straight. You believe that _I_ am Crawly, a _Fallen Angel_, the inventor of _original sin_?!" He laughed self-deprecatingly, then dropped his head, shaking it. When he raised his eyes again, there was tired, pitying amusement reflected there along with the frank disbelief. Addressing the Winchesters, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout the exchange, he went on, "Boys, now really. This old coot has gone 'round the bend. Not that I'm not flattered," he continued with a grin, "But you _know_ I started out as a human named Fergus Roderick MacLeod who wanted just… that little extra something." He smirked lewdly.

"Yeah, that was in 17th century Scotland, right?" asked Sam, drawing Crowley's attention.

"Right," confirmed the demon triumphantly, nodding, as Aziraphale frowned. "So there's no way I could possibly have been in the Garden of Eden giving apples to Eve."

"Yeah, you would've bragged about that ages ago if you had," commented Dean.

Rather than taking offense, the demon broke into a sly grin. "Of course I would. You know me too well, Squirrel."

Not to be derailed, Sam pushed the point that he'd let drop earlier. "But you said that you knew Naomi in Mesopotamia."

Crowley's eyes unfocussed like they had the first time Sam had pointed out the discrepancy, then went wide and hollow. He began to silently tremble as his mind refused to consolidate the conflicting input, but otherwise the demon made no sound, no movement.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, moved rapidly. Upon seeing the demon's stricken expression, he was across the circle in a heartbeat, ignoring the cries of warning and dismay from the onlookers and pulling the near-catatonic demon into a hug.

To everyone's surprise, rather than forcefully attacking the angel or even shoving him away, Crowley closed his eyes and relaxed into the embrace, hands coming up to hover uncertainly at Aziraphale's sides. The hug was everything Crowley had ever dreamed of, full of acceptance, and comfort… and friendship and love. His stillness lasted almost a minute before the his eyes flew open in shock and he was scuttling backwards as far from the intruder as the devil's trap would allow. In his haste he tripped over his own feet, falling to his knees in an ungraceful heap. Rather than rising, he covered his head with his arms and curled into a ball, cowering from the apparition that stood motionless in shock in the center of the circle.

He'd finally lost his mind completely; his imaginary friend was standing in the Winchesters' basement and had just given him a hug.

He began rocking back and forth in agitation. "No! No, you're not real!," he moaned. "You can't be… " The humans exchanged alarmed glances as they watched the usually self-assured demon visibly hyperventilate and fall apart. "You're a dream! A nightmare! A figment of my imagination!" he screamed at Aziraphale in increasing panic. "A hallucination caused by those trials - caused by injecting human blood!"

The erstwhile King of Hell continued to cower on the floor of his invisible cage, still rocking with his arms covering his head, one horrified eye now fixed on the somber bookseller. Once over his surprise at Crowley's abrupt retreat, the tow-headed angel intentionally radiated as much comfort and safety as he could manage and knelt before the demon, extending a careful hand towards him like he was a frightened kitten. "Oh, dearest. I assure you that I am very, very real." He inched forward as unthreateningly as he could, dropping his voice and murmuring reassurances that only their captive could hear. Crowley watched his approach in petrified terror, breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the extended fingertips lightly stroked his cheek.

Then Crowley, King of Hell, fainted dead away.

Dean's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline in surprise. "What the hell, man?" he choked out as Aziraphale caught the unconscious demon before his head could strike the floor. "What just happened?"

The Principality was blind to everything but the motionless form cradled so very carefully in his arms. Now the angel himself was doing the rocking, still murmuring breathless encouragements to unhearing ears.

Aziraphale couldn't believe he was finally actually holding Crowley in his arms. After six millennia of fighting, and thwarting, and working to cross purposes, the two corporeal representatives of their respective sides had ultimately seen eye-to-eye on one issue: preventing the Earth's destruction. Afterwards, task accomplished, the Principality had discovered more likeable things about Crowley than he had ever expected. Most importantly, he found that he preferred the demon's company to that of his own kind; after all, the pair of them were the only creatures in the universe with their frame of reference. They had a common ground that seemed to be blossoming into something deeper, although neither would be the first to admit it. For the first time since he'd left the Garden, Aziraphale had been happy.

Then Naomi had remembered enough to rip his newfound happiness from him. He had tried to contact his Heavenly superiors, with no result. His prayers went unanswered. His circle remained silent. He finally screwed up the courage to visit Lower Tadfield, but even the young Antichrist had been unable to help locate the demon. At a loss as to what to do next, Aziraphale had settled down to wait. And wait. And wait.

He lost himself completely in his books. Rebuilding his decimated collection had been time consuming, but the new books Adam had provided were valuable enough to sell or trade to obtain replacements for his original volumes. At first he had merely dabbled at restoring his collection as opportunity arose; now he threw himself at it obsessively. For the first time since he'd become a book dealer, Aziraphale had actually worked at _selling_ books. He discovered the internet, traded his cheap plastic terminal for something that even Crowley would have been proud to own, and became adept at both buying and selling via the electronic medium. It was only in the occasional quiet moment after a particularly sought-after purchase that he found himself missing the demon desperately, if only for a sympathetic ear and a congenial discussion over a glass of fine burgundy. Instead he used the time to reexamine his own feelings regarding his counterpart, and became more and more convinced that he had been wearing blinders all along.

And now?

Now, he stared at the unconscious demon in his arms, smoothing sweat-soaked hair away from closed, unknowing eyes. Despite the different appearance, despite this demon's evil history, despite the astronomical odds to the contrary, the Principality _knew_ this was Crowley; that this was _his_ Crowley. With Naomi supposedly dead, all he had to do was get Crowley to remember who he was.

Castiel stared at the tableau, angel and demon, in silent wonder, while Sam's mouth simply gaped open.

Dean's eyes flitted to each figure in turn as he demanded, "Seriously. What just happened here? Did Crowley - our Crowley, the most evil bastard I ever met - just faint like a little girl?"

"Yes," replied Castiel, never taking his eyes off the pair in the circle. "Yes, he did." Then, lowering his voice, continued insistently, "Look at them, Dean. Sam was right. Just… look."

Dean chuckled, recovering quickly. "I am looking, Cas. And I'm seeing the King of Hell passed out on our basement floor like a pansy-assed sissy."

"No, Dean." Sam apparently understood what their ailing angel friend was getting at. "Really _look _at them. At Aziraphale's face…"

So the hunter did. And the devotion and joy reflected in the older angel's tear-filled blue eyes as they stared down at the precious burden in his arms could melt a heart of stone. Nothing in the world existed outside of the two of them, and there was no doubt in any of the onlookers' minds that Aziraphale recognized the demon.

"I didn't think it was possible," murmured Castiel, barely audible for fear of intruding on this somehow sacred moment. "I knew that angels and humans sometimes entered into… relationships even though it is discouraged, and I could easily imagine Crowley and Naomi together, but this?" He stared, transfixed as if the secrets of the universe were contained by the two huddled forms.

The watchers fell silent, waiting for the drama to play out. Aziraphale gradually became aware of his surroundings and struggled to regain his composure. His rocking slowed to a stop and he scrubbed the back of a hand across his face to wipe away any tears that had fallen unnoticed during the admittedly one-sided reunion. He then slipped an arm beneath the demon's knees and another behind his back, taking care to cushion Crowley's lolling head on his own chest as he rose to his feet with surprising smoothness.

Aziraphale managed a tremulous smile at the others and quavered, "Would one of you gentlemen mind terribly breaking the circle? I'd like to move him somewhere more comfortable."

The demon's arms hung loosely at his side as the Principality continued to support his limp form. Crowley had already been insensate for longer than Sam was comfortable with, so he nodded and hurriedly obliged. "Here, bring him this way; we have a couch upstairs."

"Thank you ever so much," whispered the book dealer gratefully, and followed the taller man from the chamber.

Dean and Castiel awkwardly avoided each other's eyes as they hurried to catch up.

After Crowley had been carefully positioned on the sofa and wrapped in a truly hideous plaid throw that Aziraphale had miracled up from somewhere, the visiting angel sat beside him and took one limp hand in his, rubbing it absently as he worriedly studied the unconscious demon's face. A tiny trickle of blood ran from Crowley's left eye; Aziraphale produced an actual cloth handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed it away.

"This isn't just normal shock, is it?" asked Sam, squatting beside him to examine Crowley more closely. He pried open each of the demon's eyelids in turn, watching the pupils contract to the overhead light. "What did Naomi do to him, exactly?"

"I'm not sure. I was on Earth long before she rose to a position of any power, and Heaven never had cause before the near-apocalypse to summon me for questioning. I don't know anything about her methods." Aziraphale fretted, "I'm worried, though. Could she have put some type of self-destruct in his mind to prevent the recovery of his memory?"

"I am uncertain, but I do not believe that was within her power. Erasure and mind control, yes, even implanted memories, but delayed destruction? I do not believe so." Castiel responded, as he was the only one who had personal experience on the subject. "Otherwise, she would have arranged for something to activate when I rebelled against her, or when Samandriel was captured."

"But the bleeding eye?" asked Sam.

"As I mentioned earlier, proof positive that, even if Aziraphale is incorrect about Crowley's identity," he held up a hand to stop the Principality's automatic objection, "Naomi has definitely had her fingers in Crowley's brain. The blood is leaking from her equipment's access point." Castiel put a hand to his forehead and staggered a bit at the conclusion of his explanation, suddenly bone-tired.

Dean hurriedly supported him to a seat, then growled, "This is all very sweet and everything, but haven't we kinda gotten off track, here? The whole point was to find the 'First Demon' and get a little blood so we can help Castiel." He turned to the fussy bookseller and demanded, "How sure are you that Crowley is the Serpent of Eden?"

"Entirely," replied the angel instantly, his eyes riveted on Crowley's slack face. "There is not a shred of doubt in my mind."

Dean huffed in relief and spread his arms. "Great! There you go, Cas. I'll get some syringes and Sam can start setting up." Before anyone could respond, the Winchesters both stood with a nod and hurried out of the room.

Aziraphale looked up at that, about to object, but then cleared his throat and looked back to where his hand was entwined with Crowley's. Castiel noted the movement however, and leaned forward to place a gentle hand on the fidgety Principality's shoulder. "Is there a problem?" he asked quietly.

The book dealer had trouble meeting Castiel's eyes, but managed it through force of will. "I was concerned about not having Crowley's permission, but in retrospect, it's easier this way. I know that my Crowley would have certainly helped, albeit grumpily, but I'm unsure of this version's response." He smiled softly down at the sleeping demon as he continued, "You have all done so much for us; how could I possible object?"

Castiel nodded, then solemnly responded, "I thank you both for giving me this chance at restoration."

"I think there's been too much suffering already, don't you?" Aziraphale smiled sadly. Sam returned and began itemizing what they needed on a nearby table while Dean produced a syringe from a small roll and placed a tourniquet around the demon's limp arm. Before Aziraphale could blink, the syringe was full and Dean was placing a Band-Aid over the puncture site. He hurried to his brother with their final ingredient.

Glancing back at the trio of supernatural beings, Dean murmured under his breath, "Sam, is there a problem if this 'Aziraphale' is wrong about Crowley? I mean, _Crowley_? He hardly seems like the Fallen Angel type."

Sam didn't look behind himself as he continued to tabulate ingredients and replied, "No, no problem. The spell just won't work. Of course, it might not work anyway, but it's the only thing we've come up with to try so far." He surveyed the accumulated materials on the desk and nodded. "Yep. That's got it. We ought to move this to another room, though."

Dean nodded and they turned towards the couch where the two angels were patiently sitting beside the still-unconscious demon. Sam rubbed his hands together and managed a forced smile. "So, Cas, you ready?"

When Castiel nodded and began to stand, Aziraphale smiled apologetically. "If you don't mind, I'd prefer to stay here."

Dean, who had never even considered trusting Crowley alone no matter how helpless he seemed, was quick to agree. "Sure. Knock yourself out. This may take a few minutes though."

"The kitchen is right through there if you need more tea or anything," added Sam politely.

Aziraphale beamed gratefully. "Thank you so much; I'm sure we'll be fine." He cast a fond look at the sleeping demon, then continued, "We'll be right here when you get back."

Castiel joined the Winchesters, and the three gathered up the supplies and left the room.

Aziraphale's eyes returned to Crowley's face. He studied the new features critically; same dark hair, same fashionable clothes, but his new body was shorter with fewer sharp angles. And his eyes! The angel had been surprised when he had first seen the demon in the summoning circle; rather than a reptilian slit in a golden iris, Crowley's eyes were now a deep chocolate brown. Maybe something to do with Naomi's machinations? Of course, without his own body… Aziraphale smoothed his hand through the demon's soft, short hair and allowed his mind to drift back to the last time he'd seen _his_ Crowley.

_It was six months after the aborted apocalypse, and Aziraphale whistled under his breath as he shelved his latest acquisition. While Adam hadn't restored his bookshop precisely, the new titles were valuable enough to sell for sufficient profit to outright purchase replacements for the volumes missing from his collection, which he did as circumstances allowed. On occasion, other dealers had happily agreed to an even trade. He'd replaced his 'Buggre Alle This Bible' in that fashion, and both booksellers had been delighted with the deal. Right now he was doing minor tasks while waiting for his demon counterpart to arrive for their weekly lunch date at the Ritz._

_They both had been at loose ends after returning home from Lower Tadfield that Saturday afternoon. Adam had declared, "no more messin' people about", which was essentially his and Crowley's job description. However, neither of them were inclined to disobey an order from the Antichrist, so their jobs had essentially disappeared. He wasn't sure how the demon filled his newly-acquired copious free time, but the angel had thrown himself whole-heartedly into his bookshop._

_It was only natural that they gravitated towards each other. They were the only two creatures on Earth with their frame of reference, after all. They met to feed the ducks at St. James Park regularly, and had a standing weekly lunch date at the Ritz. In between, they would occasionally dine at a new restaurant that Aziraphale had read about, or Crowley would drop by with a vintage wine to get the angel's opinion, or they would meet at a museum or street fair just to see what humanity was up to without their interference. _

_Naturally they were nervous, especially at first. Retribution seemed inevitable. However, both their sides seemed to only vaguely remember what had happened, without specific details, so they were ignoring the events altogether. Adam had said, "I know all about you two. Don't you worry.", but Aziraphale found it hard not to hold his breath every time his shop door opened. Still, after six months of no contact from Heaven or Hell, the angel had begun to relax. Perhaps both their sides really didn't remember his and Crowley's involvement._

_Turns out, he'd let down his guard too soon._

_He felt the Heavenly intrusion before he saw them. As he settled the book into place, his store was suddenly filled with their presence, their Grace. He could make out at least four, one of whom was quite powerful… and they weren't happy._

_Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale steeled himself and turned to face the intruders. He assumed his blandest smile as he greeted the heavenly contingent. "Good morning. How may I help you?"_

_The short-haired woman in the dark suit stepped forward, clearly in charge. "Are you Aziraphale, Principality, and Guardian of the Eastern Gate?" she demanded in a tone that implied it was not a question._

_Aziraphale refused to rise to the bait. "Why yes, I am. But you have me at a disadvantage." 'In more ways than one', he thought ruefully, glancing at her three muscle-bound henchmen. "You clearly know who I am, Miss….?" he trailed off, leaving the name a question._

_"Naomi," she clipped out coldly. "Just 'Naomi'." Her expression made it clear that the 'Miss' had been an error._

_"Well, then, Naomi, how may I be of service?" Aziraphale tried to still the butterflies in his stomach._

_Her face twisted in confusion. "Don't you know who I am?"_

_The Principality's eyebrows raised in surprise. "No, should I? If so, I apologize. I've been stationed down here for quite some time, and haven't really kept up with Heavenly politics."_

_"Then let me introduce myself. I am Naomi, Chief Intelligence Officer of the Heavenly Host." She smiled tightly. "As you might guess, in my position I am greatly disturbed by the fact that no one seems to have any concrete information about certain events that occurred on a particular Saturday six months ago in an Earth village called Lower Tadfield. Trust me when I say that I have been quite… thorough in my investigation up to this point."_

_Aziraphale's face fell. So Adam had been wrong about the worrying after all._

_"I see you know what I'm talking about. While no one can actually place you at this location, it stands to reason that the senior heavenly field agent would be on hand for an attempted apocalypse."_

_The bookseller looked her straight in the eye. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I was indeed present. However, I doubt that my recollection will be any better than yours."_

_"How about you come with me to answer some questions, then? I prefer to conduct this type of interview in my office."_

_'Hmm, not so bad after all', he considered. With a smile, he nodded. "Certainly, Naomi, I'd be glad to help in any way I can." He turned towards his desk, reaching for a pen and paper. "Just let me leave a note for a customer I'm expecting later, explaining that I've been unavoidably delayed."_

_He never actually touched the desk. Before he could blink, he found that both his arms had been roughly seized by two of Naomi's goons, and his shoulders wrenched back painfully._

_"Warn your accomplices, you mean?" Naomi hissed in his face. "No, I don't think so."_

_"My word!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "Surely this brute force is quite uncalled for, my dear. I have already agreed to accompany you and happily answer anything I can."_

_"You bet you'll answer my questions, and I'm not your 'dear'," she snarled. "There's no way a Principality has lived on Earth for over six thousand years and remained this naïve. I'm on to you, you wily old man."_

_"Really…!" Aziraphale began, affronted. _

_Unfortunately, Crowley picked this day out of all others to be punctual for lunch and, upon finding Fell's Rare Books full of hostile angels, decided to rescue Aziraphale rather than run the other way like any sensible being would do. The door burst open with a crash, and the demon rushed through with a cry of, "Angel!"_

_He didn't make it three steps. The remaining enforcer had been standing beside the door, guarding it, and Crowley missed him as he hurried towards a beleaguered Aziraphale. The guard brought one beefy arm down on the back of the demon's neck, and Crowley dropped like a sack of potatoes._

_"Crowley!" Aziraphale cried, struggling to free himself and protect his demon. "Crowley!"_

_Naomi curled her lip in disgust as she observed his panicked efforts. "You really care about that… that creature, don't you?" _

_The Principality glared at her silently, refusing to answer._

_Without looking, she ordered over her shoulder, "Kill it."_

_"NO!" Aziraphale redoubled his thrashing, and actually managed to dislocate his shoulder as he tried to break free. The pain could wait; Crowley was in mortal danger. "Don't! He's my friend!" he screamed._

_She held up an authoritative hand. "Stop!" she commanded. The guard, who had drawn his sword and was holding it over Crowley's neck, halted mid-stroke. Seeing this, the Principality quieted, standing submissively between the two angels that were twice his size, one arm hanging at an awkward angle._

_Smiling superiorly at the older angel, Naomi asked in a mockingly sweet voice, "See? Now was that so hard?"_

_While they had his demon helpless, Aziraphale was going to be as agreeable as possible. "No, of course not. My apologies for my behavior."_

_Naomi shot him a self-satisfied smirk. "My, but you're a quick learner. Good boy." She patted his cheek lightly with the palm of her hand, then strolled over to where Crowley still lay in a boneless heap on the floor. _

_Aziraphale ground his teeth at the condescension, but kept his face as open and pleasant as he could manage._

_She studied the motionless form for a moment before screwing up her face in distaste and edging the toe of her shoe under his torso. With a surprisingly strong heave, she rolled him onto his back, then squatted to examine the unconscious demon's face. After a second recognition dawned._

_"Well, if it isn't good ol' Crawly," she sneered. "You know, now that I'm looking at him, I seem to remember his presence at the apocalypse as well. Isn't that right, Aziraphale?"_

_The angel didn't dare lie, not with Crowley's life on the line. "Yes, we were both present."_

_She nodded and stood, brushing off her hands even though she hadn't actually touched the demon. Turning towards her blond prisoner, she shook her head I mock sadness. "Shame on you, Aziraphale. You have terrible taste in friends." She looked back at the unconscious form contemplatively. "Still, from the information I have, he's not a particularly evil demon, is he?"_

_"He's been known to perform the occasional selfless act," Aziraphale ground out. It wasn't as though Naomi hadn't seen that for herself just moments before._

_She nodded, tapping her index finger against her lip. "Yes. Yes, he should do nicely." _

_Straightening, she addressed Aziraphale. "As Crawly was present for the events, questioning him should be just as effective as questioning you, perhaps more so. Demons have much less resistance to my interrogation methods. Afterwards, I'll even make a point of… repairing his personality. That way, you won't have to worry about being led astray any longer; you won't even have to bother with messy goodbyes."_

_Aziraphale was horrified. "What do you mean? You're not going to kill him, are you?"_

_Naomi shook her head. "No, of course not. After my interrogation is complete, I'll completely reprogram him. It's easy at that point to overlay the memories of an actual demon, burying Crawly's experiences and personality beneath so many layers of evil incarnate that even Lucifer won't be able to sort it out. Then I'll discorporate him, and he'll be on his merry way back to Hell. He'll take up where the original demon left off, and no one will be the wiser."_

_"But…but you can't do that! That's tantamount to murder!" _

_"Hardly. Crawly will still be there, just in… hibernation. That way, it's win-win. You won't be tempted to befriend a demon, and he will revert to his true nature."_

_"But…" he began, but they had disappeared, taking Crowley with them. There was nothing he could do. He collapsed onto the dusty bookshop floor, clutching his injured arm with the other, and wept._

_TBC…_


	6. Working It Out

**Chapter 6 - Working It Out**

"Aziraphale? Are you all right?" The concern in Castiel's tone was almost palpable. The Principality shook himself from his painful recollections and smiled gratefully up at his younger brother.

"Yes, I'm fine," he replied. "Back so soon? Did something go wrong?"

"It has been over thirty minutes since we left," answered Castiel in confusion. "And the incantation was completed correctly."

There was something about the way the younger angel phrased his reply that had the Principality examining him with a more critical eye. The Angel of Thursday appeared somewhat improved, but still quite unwell. Glancing at Dean and Sam as they entered the room behind Castiel, he noted that they were far from happy.

"Well then, how are _you_ feeling?"

Castiel resumed his earlier seat with an exhausted sigh. "The spell was only partially successful," he grimaced. "While I am no longer in mortal peril, I am far from completely recovered."

The Principality nodded grimly and settled back against his still-unconscious friend. "I was afraid that might happen. There are a number of reasons for the incantation to be… inadequate," he posited carefully.

"Oh?" Sam demanded, bristling. "I'm sure it was right, and we had the correct ingredients."

"But Crowley's blood was not obtained with his permission," the Principality countered quietly. "And he is still unconscious, so his blood magic is suppressed." He glanced down to where his own delicate hands were clasped together nervously in his lap, then looked back up and concluded, "And _he_ still doesn't believe that he _is_ the Serpent."

"Of course," Castiel groaned, dropping his head to his hands in realization.

"What? That can make a difference?" asked Sam incredulously.

"Belief is intrinsic to the power of an angel. It's a large part of our basic nature." Aziraphale spoke carefully, trying not to offend, but wanting to get his point across.

"But… blood is blood," objected Sam. "You can't just wish it into orange Kool-Aid."

Perhaps not 'wish'," agreed Castiel. "But if an angel truly _believes_ his blood to be a children's drink, then the blood will do its best to oblige."

Dean stared at him skeptically. "You're shittin' me."

"No, my dear boy, I am afraid Castiel is correct. I frequently find just the right table available at my favorite restaurant because I _believe_ it will be free."

"But Crowley's a demon, not an angel," Dean objected.

"No, he's an angel, Dean. Just a Fallen Angel. Therefore the same rules apply, right?" asked Sam.

"That is correct," agreed Castiel.

"Therefore, we'll have to break through Naomi's reprogramming before Castiel will experience the full effect of your counterspell," added the Principality. "Or at least convince Crowley that he is the Serpent of Eden."

"How do we know that his memories weren't completely erased?" Castiel was depressingly pragmatic.

"No, no," Sam interjected as he finally grasped the problem. "Before he collapsed, Crowley claimed that Aziraphale couldn't be real; that he was a figment of his imagination. Now that implies some level of recognition. If nothing else, he's got memories of Aziraphale rattling around in his subconscious." He pulled a chair up to the group and leaned forward earnestly. "We have to convince him that those dreams are actually _his own memories_."

"At one point he called me a 'trial-induced hallucination'. Do you know what he meant by that? Was he brought before some tribunal?" Aziraphale mentally cringed at the thought of Crowley being tried by Hell for crimes he no longer remembered.

The brothers shared guilty glances as realization dawned in Sam's eyes. "Dean, it has to be the demon trials."

"Demon trials?" echoed Aziraphale blankly.

"The three trials on the demon tablet meant to close the Gates of Hell forever, banishing demons from this plane of existence."

Their guest glanced at the still-comatose King of Hell, then back to the group. "What does that have to do with Crowley?" he demanded, a little sharply.

Sam cleared his throat. "The third trial… involved 'curing' a demon, and the demon we tried to cure was Crowley."

The mild-mannered bookseller's eyes narrowed, suddenly dangerous. Sam could instantly picture him wielding a flaming sword. "And what exactly did that entail?" the Principality growled.

"Well, um," he glanced at his shoes for a moment, then back up to the angel's face. "While on hallowed ground, we had to inject him hourly for eight hours with purified human blood, then exorcise him." He shook his head, confused. "But he only remembered his life and crimes as Crowley the crossroads demon, back to the life of a petty 17th century tailor. He said nothing of being a Fallen Angel."

Aziraphale considered this information, then carefully asked, "You didn't actually finish the exorcism, did you?".

"No, I stopped him. It would have killed Sam to finish that trial. He almost died anyway." Dean explained. "The completion of the third trial involved Sam sacrificing himself."

"No, that is incorrect," interjected Castiel before anyone else could comment. "I investigated the spell. The trials were physically wearing on Sam to demonstrate his _willingness_ for self-sacrifice. Like Abraham and Isaac, the offer was all that was ultimately expected. Had he demonstrated faith, he would have been healed at their completion."

Aziraphale was shaking his head vehemently in denial as both Sam and Dean stared at Castiel in horror at his statement. "No, no, my dear, in this particular instance it _would_ have killed him."

"According to my research…" argued Castiel.

The Principality interrupted. "With any normal demon, you are correct - once 'cured', it would be human, releasing the purified demonic energy, and Sam would have been restored." Aziraphale assumed the air of a lecturing professor. "But Crowley isn't human - he is one of the Fallen. The cleansing of that much tainted _angelic_ power…"

"Would have gone off like a bomb," finished Castiel, eyes widening in realization.

"That two-faced lying bitch!" growled Dean, running a hand angrily through his hair.

"Dean?…" Sam only had to speak his brother's name to ask the question.

Dean fixed him with a glare. "Naomi. Again. She popped down to share the Metatron's plans, then dropped the little detail that if you completed the trials, you'd die."

"In this case, technically true," Castiel nodded. "However, it wouldn't have been the trials per se that killed him; it would have been the abrupt creation of a blast crater a half-mile in diameter."

"So, since Naomi thought that Sam was dead either way, she just wanted to hide what she'd done to Crowley," snarled the older Winchester as he jumped up to pace the room.

"Or to keep Crowley unaware of his true nature," suggested Aziraphale quietly, eyes fixed again on the still-comatose demon.

Dean stopped roaming like a caged tiger and stared back at the two occupants of the sofa. "Yeah, OK. That makes sense, I guess."

"He has to be the Serpent, or the potion wouldn't have worked at all." Aziraphale shot an apologetic look at the other angel. "If Naomi was worried about him finding out, maybe we can use that to convince _him_ once he wakes up."

"So…" said Sam, glancing at Castiel as well. "We wait?"

"I'm afraid so, my boy. If I'm right, Crowley's conscious state alone should add strength to the mixture in Castiel's bloodstream." He smiled at the other angel. "You should feel a bit improved almost immediately."

"Then what? We ask him for permission to use the blood we already took from him while he was unconscious?" Dean snorted. "Yeah, right. That'll work well."

"Not… necessarily. I could probably convince him. Crowley and I were once quite good friends." Aziraphale's expressive hands fluttered in agitation as a blush crept up his face.

"Friends," questioned Dean without inflection.

The blush reached his hairline as Aziraphale kept his eyes downcast and nodded. "Just so." Clearing his throat, he added, "After six thousand years of repeated contact, even mortal enemies tend to become… less antagonistic. And we did work together to help thwart an apocalypse, after all." He smiled, fondly smoothing Crowley's hair away from his face once again. "He was going to fight Lucifer armed with only a tire iron."

"What?" Sam choked out in disbelief. "I've been in Lucifer's head. That… would not have turned out well for Crowley."

Aziraphale chuckled. "No, it wouldn't have. After it was all over and we'd consumed quite a bit of excellent wine, he admitted that it had been easier to face the Adversary with a totally useless weapon than with one that might actually do damage. With a tire iron, he knew he was doomed, and that gave him courage."

Dean's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline as he dropped into a chair. "Wow. That… doesn't sound like our Crowley at all. Ours runs at the slightest hint of trouble."

Sam squinted his eyes consideringly. "No, not really, Dean. I mean, remember when we had Brady? Crowley took on a nest of demons by himself to get Brady to talk, then saved us from the Hellhound by fetching his own."

Castiel cleared his throat uncomfortably, then contributed, "When I had the power of Purgatory at my command, I tracked him to an ignominious hide-out and confronted him; he stood to face what he believed was his impending death with… surprising dignity."

Sam and Dean stared at Castiel, but he refused to elaborate further.

A fond smile came to Aziraphale's lips as he continued to stroke the demon's hair. "My Crowley was always full of surprises."

The previously invisible walls in Crowley's mind, already cracked and damaged by Sam's attempt to 'cure' him, had started collapsing completely at the sight of Aziraphale. A tidal wave of disjointed memories had crashed across the rubble, swamping the demon and leaving him lost and bewildered within his own insensate mind. Unfortunately there was no rhyme or reason to the recollections, so they swirled and crashed into his consciousness in random snatches of sight and sound. Each time Crowley tried to catch and examine a specific memory, it would slip away. It was simultaneously both frightening and frustrating.

_He was seated behind the wheel of a large, powerful, vintage black touring car, the engine purring as the wind whipped through his hair. _

_He was coiled at the feet of a white-robed angel as raindrops pattered on the thick, green canopy of leaves overhead. _

_He was sitting at a small, sturdy table sipping a truly excellent Bordeaux as he leaned forward to make a point to the blond figure seated across from him. _

_He was racing into the inferno of a burning bookstore, screaming for his friend._

_He was standing next to that friend, tossing bread at a duck that floated just a few feet from shore, and laughing as it snatched up the pastry and promptly sank. _

_He was slumped at a rickety table in a dingy tavern in 15th Century Spain, half-blind from alcohol poisoning, staring dejectedly at a Commendation from Hell for the Inquisition; a warm arm draped comfortingly over his shoulders as a suspiciously well-groomed hand relieved him of the bottle. _

_He was seated behind a desk watching with horrified relief as a Duke of Hell melted into a mound of burning, foul-smelling goo just inside the door. Moments later he was fleeing for his life through the phone lines with the creature's partner hot on his electronic heels._

_He was sitting with his frumpy blond friend with the tartan jumper at a discrete table in a Sushi restaurant, explaining the proper application of ginger and wasabi._

_He was threatening a potted dieffenbachia with discorporation unless it started leafing out. _

_He was determinedly flying across a hellish sigil disguised as a highway as his beloved Bentley caught fire around him. _

_He was seated at a small café near Notre Dame, watching with amusement as passersby tried to pick up a French Livre which remained obstinately stuck to the ground._

_He was standing next to his Angel, an old tire iron in his hands, ready to battle Lucifer himself._

_He was rushing into a hospital run by Satanist nuns with a basket in his hands that he carefully kept at arm's length, as if it contained a flesh-and-blood bomb._

_He was sauntering into a bookshop he knew better than his own flat, only to discover his Angel being held against his will by two heavenly thugs as some angelic bureaucrat verbally threatened him with physical violence…_

"Well, while Sleeping Beauty over there naps, why don't you tell us about your version of Crowley," suggested Dean. He had just returned from the kitchen with a beer for himself and Castiel, having declined the tea Sam had already made for Aziraphale. Dean wasn't sure if a person could overdose on tea, but the Principality was certainly trying.

The angel became flustered as a blush crept up his face. Dropping his eyes, he worried a loose thread in his tartan pullover and stammered, "Well… um… well, I really don't know where to begin…"

"The beginning is always good," suggested Sam kindly, missing the book dealer's cringe as he sipped his sugared tea as a distraction.

"The Serpent was one of the Fallen, was he not?" prompted Castiel.

The angel's head jerked up defensively. "Well, not originally. He didn't fall with Lucifer. He fell later… or rather, he always said that he'd 'sauntered vaguely downwards'. It was an accumulation of the little things - bad choices in friends, questioning the ineffable plan, things like that. He was never really all that evil."

"Dude, the Crowley we know is pretty much _pure_ evil," snorted Dean derisively, indicating the comatose demon with a nod of his head. "Murder, torture, whatever it takes to advance his personal schemes."

Aziraphale followed his gaze sadly. "That is what Naomi made him - 'true to his nature', she said. It's not what he was before, so I suppose she succeeded."

Dean snorted. "I'll say," he agreed, taking a long pull from his bottle. "So, what else?"

The frumpy angel smiled fondly and sipped his tea. "When I first met him, Adam and Eve had just been kicked out of Eden. He was always more of a mischief-maker than truly evil, encouraging people to give into their baser natures rather than acting on his own auspices. Likewise, my job was to inspire those same people to be better than their base nature, or at the very least thwart his tempting. We never intervened actively until the almost-apocalypse, and then it was only as a last resort."

The next few hours involved many more beers, a teapot that seemed to never run out of Earl Grey, and stories of a demon who at worst could be considered 'chaotic neutral'. _'Heck, Gabriel seemed more evil than this guy'_, Dean reflected silently, listening to the tale of a children's magic show gone wrong, _'Naomi __definitely__ had him beat.'_ Crowley's unthinking resuscitation of the dove had them all gaping, only to smile at his subsequent panicked realization that he had lost the antichrist as an infant. Story after story, and the group slowly discovered that Aziraphale's fondness was contagious.

Crowley slowly swam to consciousness some time later, negotiating the tide of jumbled new memories in the process, on a rather comfortable yet well-worn couch. A cool, damp washcloth was draped over his eyes by this time, and he could feel the weight of someone sitting next to his hip. That same mysterious someone was holding his left hand in theirs, and was absently rubbing a soothing thumb over it as murmured conversation drifted through the room. The sensations were so comforting that the demon nearly allowed himself to fall back asleep; at least, until he remembered that his last conscious location was in the basement of a warded bunker with an angel, two hunters, and a ghost as company. He forced himself to remain awake as he tried to sort out what had happened.

Unlike all his past dreams, the images he'd just experienced were still as clear and bright as a sunny day, and he remembered them all. They were overwhelming, and he was having trouble processing them into any meaningful order. He finally decided that they could wait until later; right now, he was very possibly in mortal danger. He was at the mercy of the Winchesters, after all. He ruthlessly suppressed all the new recollections, storing them carefully away to be dealt with at his leisure, and concentrated on the outside world. He managed to keep his body motionless as he did so, but it was a near thing. Best to listen to the hunters while they thought him unaware; he might discover something useful. With a little concentration their words began to make sense.

"Seriously? Crowley?" Squirrel was saying in disbelief. "Likes fine cars?"

The demon felt he should be offended, but wasn't certain why. Why drive a car when he could just snap himself places?

"Oh, yes. He owned a 1926 Bentley, in pristine condition. His pride and joy. Had it since it was new." The voice was soft and reassuring for all that it was strange to him. Strange, yet not-strange as well. And it triggered memories that he'd been unaware of actually possessing.

Images of the sleek, black, purring monster of an automobile suddenly popped to mind, as well as the sensation of racing along a thoroughfare at a truly spectacular speed.

"He never seemed to care one way or the other about Baby," countered the hunter.

"Dude, do you know what a Bentley is?" asked a voice that was recognizably Moose. "That's like comparing a can of Coors to a snifter of Armagnac."

"Hey!" his brother began to object, but the soothing voice of the stranger somehow overrode him as he continued.

"I've kept the car garaged, with regular maintenance. Hope springs eternal, as they say, and _my_ Crowley would never forgive me if anything happened to that car. I've kept his flat as well, and water his plants twice a week." A low chuckle. "However I'm afraid that I don't have his knack for floral intimidation, so they might not be quite as green as they once were."

"I'm sorry. Did you say 'floral intimidation'?" Sam's voice questioned as if he truly doubted his own hearing.

"Why, yes my dear. He heard about the benefits of talking to plants on Radio 4, you see, so decided to try it. In true demon fashion however, he found that his plants responded better to threats than compliments. Additionally, every couple of weeks he would pick up the poorest performer, announce that it 'didn't measure up' and for the rest of the group to bid it farewell, then leave the apartment with it in his arms. A few hours later he'd return with a large, empty pot that he would set down where the rest of the room could see it. His plants grew phenomenally well!"

"What did he actually do with the plant he left with?" asked a low, grating voice that had to be Feathers.

The newcomer replied, "Oh, gave it away, replanted it in the park, things like that. But the flora in his flat had no way of knowing that." Another warm, soft chuckle. "You never saw such verdant, yet terrified, houseplants in your life. I'm afraid that I just don't have the knack."

"It's been what, twenty-five years?" asked Dean in astonishment.

"Give or take," agreed the visitor.

"That's an awfully long time," commented his brother.

The low, comfortable laugh again. "My boy, I've lived on this planet for over six _thousand_ years. Twenty-five is very little in comparison."

There was an awkward clearing of a throat, followed by a hoarse, "I believe that Mr. Crowley is awake."

'How could Wings know that?', the demon thought in panic. Still, the jig was up, so he went ahead and carefully cracked open his eyes, hand reaching up to pull off the washcloth as he did so.

"Dearest!" exclaimed the stranger sitting next to him. Crowley was a little disoriented to find that it was the frumpy blond from his dreams. Huh; he hadn't dreamed the scene in the basement after all. He ignored the stranger for the time being as he propped himself up on his elbows and stared suspiciously around the room. His tone was accusatory as he snarled, "Someone messed with my brain!" He swung his legs to the floor and sat up, then swayed woozily with the sudden change in position. He angrily shrugged off the gentle hand on his shoulder that steadied him while focusing on the Winchesters. "Was it you lot? Thought you'd get your jollies messing me about?"

Dean's face twisted in disgust. "No, man, I wouldn't touch your mental processes for a million bucks!"

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, then quickly added helpfully, "We're pretty sure it was Naomi."

Crowley's eyes narrowed further. "Convenient, since she's dead. Or at least, so you say." He now remembered snatches of an earlier dream, but suppressed them angrily. Instead, he swung on the stranger who was still sitting quietly beside him on the sofa. "I know you, don't I?"

The visitor nodded his head enthusiastically, ignoring the demon's hostility. "Yes. We've been friends for… a very, very long time."

"Who are you then, and why can't I remember you clearly?" He didn't add, 'And why are you haunting my dreams?' even though he wanted to. His voice was already shaking more than he was comfortable with. He was certain that, given time and privacy, he'd be able to root through his own newfound memories and gradually sort it out, but it was easier for the time being just to ask. He could check the veracity of the answers later at his own convenience. Besides, if he remembered right, the guy was an angel; he'd probably tell the truth anyhow.

The blond smiled beatifically. "I am Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and Principality of Heaven."

"Oh for crying out loud," Crowley groused as the implications set in. "Are you guys back to that? How many times do I have to tell you, I am _not_ the First Demon?"

"If by 'First Demon' you mean Serpent of Eden, then I am afraid that you _are_, my dear." The disheveled visiting angel shrugged apologetically.

"That's ridiculous," Crowley scoffed. "I think I'd remember something like the Garden…" He trailed off, eyes glazing as he _did_ recall sunlight filtering through lush greenery. Birds chirped unconcerned as he slowly slid along the ground, reveling in the sensation of fresh vegetation rubbing against his scales.

Eyes wide, he focused once more on the bookish blond and whispered, "I… I think that I _do_ remember it…" His tone grew accusatory again as he glared around the room, "Why am I remembering this now? What did you imbeciles do to me this time?"

Dean waved his hands in front of himself in denial. "No, no way. You don't get to pin that on us; we didn't do a thing! You freaked out when you saw Mr. Fell here."

The nearby angel nodded vigorously in agreement. "Just so, just so," he concurred. "You were Hell's field agent on Earth for over six millennia. I was Heaven's representative for the same time."

The King of Hell squinted one eye closed dubiously and cocked his head. "Shouldn't we be mortal enemies, then?" he asked. "Every recollection I have of you seems to be…" he grimaced with disgust, then plunged on recklessly, "_fond_."

Aziraphale shrugged. "We were enemies, for a time. But as the centuries began to pass, we discovered that life went better for all concerned if we helped one another out. We came to a formal Arrangement several centuries ago."

"Huh," Crowley commented neutrally, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"If you don't mind my asking, what exactly do you remember?" inquired the visiting bookshop proprietor carefully. His impeccably-manicured hands, clasped tightly in his lap, twined fretfully. Crowley found that disturbing for reasons he couldn't quite place.

Trying for nonchalant, the demon shrugged, then drawled, "I do mind, but I guess I'll share with the class." He pointedly stared straight at the blond, ignoring the rest of the room. Somehow, speaking to the strange angel was easier than talking to the people he'd been harassing for years.

"When Moose over there," he jerked his head in the direction of Sam, "tried to 'cure' me of my demonic nature by injecting me with his purified blood, I started having both human emotions and a need to sleep; with the sleeping came… dreams. I became addicted to both, which I won't elaborate on for the moment, but once I'd been… detoxed," he grimaced in distaste, "The emotions gradually resolved. The sleeping, and the dreams, did not."

He paused and took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I could never quite remember them; not well, at least. More… vague impressions, feelings. Comfort, terror, anger, resolve… that sort of thing." He gestured widely with both hands, trying to imply all the emotions he couldn't quite name. "The nightmares where I was angry and afraid usually _did_ involve Naomi, interestingly enough. The good dreams, the ones where I felt… safe, secure…", he looked away in embarrassment, unable to meet anyone's eyes, "I could never quite remember, but I think they involved you." He grimaced. "There was this… hole... inside. I can't really explain it, but the dreams helped."

The Winchesters both looked surprised at the verbal admission, but Castiel was nodding his head. "It feels like something missing; like there is something important that you _should_ remember but can't."

It was Crowley's turn to look surprised, and he stared at the Angel of Thursday in shock for a long moment before recovering himself and resuming his air of nonchalance. "How do you know that?" he demanded with suspicion.

"I was a recipient of Naomi's hospitality as well," replied Castiel factually.

Crowley scrutinized the other angel, and could see no sign of deceit. His erstwhile partner also looked healthier than he had over the last several days. "You're looking better," he commented warily. "What happened?"

Three mouths opened to reply, but Castiel sent quelling glances at the others and was the only one to actually speak. "We took a small vial of your blood while you were unconscious and completed the ritual. While it was not completely successful, the fact that it worked at all proves that you are, indeed, the Serpent of Eden." He solemnly held out a test tube that was about half full of blood. "Thank you for your help; we only required five drops so I am returning the rest."

Instead of the expected outraged explosion, Crowley reached forward to gravely accept the glass container, nodding grudgingly. "You're welcome," he grunted, eyes never leaving the angel's face. "I guess I really can't object," he growled, "since I _was_ trying to help you earlier. Thank you for the courtesy of returning what you didn't need." The vial disappeared from his hand, presumably into one of the pockets of his uncharacteristically-rumpled suit.

Castiel suddenly sat straighter in his chair, blinking in surprise. The movement was so abrupt that everyone's eyes turned to regard him. As they did so, he began to physically _glow_. Shadowy wings began to manifest behind his trench coat, and his eyes shone with ethereal brilliance.

"Cas?" snapped Dean in concern, half rising from his chair.

The angel turned a wondering gaze towards the hunter. "My Grace…" he murmured in astonishment.

Aziraphale was beaming, his smile threatening to split his face. "See, my dear?", he asked. "I told you that the potion might respond better if a conscious Crowley consented to the use of his blood."

"Even after the spell was cast?" demanded Sam in surprise.

The Principality nodded. "Certainly," he replied in surprise. "What difference would that make?"

Sam just shook his head slightly, unwilling to press the issue. "Never mind. It's not important."

Crowley narrowed his eyes in distrust. "What just happened?" he snapped.

Aziraphale regarded him fondly, then patted his hand. The demon widened his eyes in horrified disbelief at the gesture, but didn't pull away. "Spells of this nature have quite a few nuances," the angel explained. "Since it is meant to restore the Grace of an angel, it stands to reason that all the ingredients should be obtained by the most forthright method possible. As you had not given permission to use your blood, the amalgam was not as effective as it might have otherwise been. Once you did grant permission, the spell's effectiveness increased automatically."

The demon king looked dubious. "So… it specified the blood of the First Demon?", he clarified.

Castiel, Sam, and Dean nodded their agreement. Crowley stared at them unblinkingly for a long moment before grunting, "Huh. I'll… have to think about that a bit." Silently he decided that he needed some time to sort out all the memories that had crashed into his consciousness earlier as well. "Nothing personal, boys, but I think I need a little 'alone time'. I'm gonna head to my office for a bit."

While the hunters nodded dubiously, the Principality looked like someone had just kicked his puppy. The demon blinked at the sharp pang in his chest at the sight of the hurt expression. "Oh, come off it , Angel, I'll be back before you know it", Crowley added instinctively in response.

The face the angel made then must have been where the British concept of 'stiff upper lip' originated. He patted Crowley's hands again reassuringly and gave him a watery smile. "Yes, my dear, I'm sure you will. I understand completely."

The demon's eyes widened at this apparent lack of faith. "I _will_ ", he protested vehemently. He gestured towards the remainder of the group. "Even if I didn't want to, these idiots have summoned me four times in the last two days! I'm sure they'd be happy to give you a group discount."

"Now wait just one second…" began Dean, but Castiel elbowed him in the side. The angel jerked his chin towards the couch, where the two occupants had now turned to face each other, oblivious to the remainder of the room.

"I understand, my dear," smiled Aziraphale, more warmly this time. "Once you've had time to think it through, I'm certain that you'll know where to reach me. But, just in case…" he produced a battered business card with a Soho address and handed it to the demon, "Here is my number. I don't have an ansafone, but I'm there most days and nights, if you want to talk… or drop by for a drink."

Crowley stared down at the card dumbly, then nodded. "Right. Yes. I'll…. do that, then. Thanks, Angel."

The Principality practically beamed at the nickname. "You are _very_ welcome, dearest."

He stared at Crowley as if the sun rose and set in his eyes, which made the demon squirm uncomfortably. Taking a deep breath, he announced decisively, "Right, then, I'm off." With a snap, he was gone.

Sam and Dean blinked at the sudden departure, then Sam shrugged one shoulder. "He said he'd be back," was his only comment.

Aziraphale rose gracefully to his feet, prompting everyone else to do the same. "Yes, well, I'm afraid that I have business to attend to at home, so I will take my leave as well."

"Don't you want to wait here for his return?" asked Castiel in confusion. There was a glow to his cheeks that hadn't been there previously; his Grace had clearly been restored to a significant extent.

The visiting angel shook his head with a smile. "He'll know where to reach me should he desire to do so. I certainly won't force myself on him before he's ready to accept who he is. Please keep 'The Conundrums of Esau' with my compliments, and if you ever need any other rare books obtained…" He produced another weathered business card, handing it to Sam. "Just call me at that number. It may take some time, but I usually come up with the requested volume eventually."

Sam gaped at their guest's generosity, but then returned the warm smile, while Dean nodded politely. "We'll be sure to do that, Mr. Fell. Thank you so much for everything."

Aziraphale turned to his younger brother at that point, clasping his outstretched hand with both of his own. "And you take care of yourself, my dear. I don't want to hear of you having any more life-threatening problems, understand?"

The corner of Castiel's lip turned up, and he snorted. "I can only promise to try, Aziraphale. Thank you. For _everything_."

The older angel nodded in response, then the group saw him to the door. With a final wave, he headed towards the passenger side of the rental vehicle, remembered that he was in the United States, and corrected his trajectory. He shot them an embarrassed grin as he climbed in and drove away.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" asked Sam, sotto voce.

"I think we all will," replied Castiel fondly.

A few weeks later Aziraphale was reshelving some books a customer _*shudder* _ had left sitting haphazardly about his shop when he heard the muted tinkle of the bell above his front door. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself not to snarl as he turned to greet the new shopper, only to have his breath catch in his throat. There in the doorway, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, stood his Demon. He was taking in the entire store with wide eyes, clearly recognizing the familiar surroundings yet still seeing them as if for the first time. The angel's eyes warmed at the sight as he hurried forward to drape a welcoming arm around his friend's shoulders.

"Crowley, my dear! I'm ever so glad to see you," he enthused.

"Well, umm, you did say to drop by?" hazarded the demon hesitantly. He was surprisingly circumspect for being the 'King of Hell'.

"Yes, yes, of course. As a matter of fact," with the hand not steering the demon towards the small room at the back of the shop, Aziraphale made a discrete gesture that locked the front door and flipped the sign to 'closed', "I have a 1945 Chateau Mouton Rothschild that I have been saving for a special occasion, and I do believe this qualifies. Would you like to share it with me?"

Crowley smirked, suddenly on comfortable ground. "Oh, I could be tempted, Angel." At the sight of the battered old table and its two familiar chairs, his smile became genuine. "I could definitely be tempted."

The End


End file.
